


The Hope of Empty Men

by Paintedsmile



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Dirty Talk, Everyone's going through their own shit, F/M, Female Assaulter, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Knotting, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Male Victim, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Derek, Rimming, Scars, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Weight Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 119,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paintedsmile/pseuds/Paintedsmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Stiles is trying to cope with everything he did under the control of the Nogitsune, Malia is quick to insinuate herself into his life and declares herself his ‘mate’. That would have been great if he’d actually been, y’know, interested, instead of trying to hold on to his sanity with both hands. His guilt combined with the fact that she has no idea about concepts such as ‘consent’, Stiles soon finds himself drowning. Will anyone reach him in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shape Without Form

**Author's Note:**

> Season 4 doesn’t happen - Isaac doesn’t leave. Derek’s not kidnapped (so the whole dream thing with Stiles at the end of season 3 doesn’t happen either), so they didn’t go to Mexico, nor was he de-aged. Kate isn’t back and the whole dead-pool thing hasn’t happened. Satomi’s pack doesn’t exist and Braeden isn’t around. 
> 
> This fic is un-beta’d and I’m dyslexic so sorry about the mistakes. I’m also not from the US, so sorry if I muck things up there too. If bad spelling/grammar really ruins a story for you then I suggest you wait until I can get it beta’d. If you’re interested in doing this for me and have a good grasp of British spelling and grammar please message me on my tumblr - colouring-outsidethelines. Thanks!
> 
> Title and chapter title is taken from 'The Hollow Men' by T.S. Eliot, which will feature in the fic itself.
> 
> Stiles might seem pretty OOC, but I’m basing his responses on real examples (not anyone in particular, just the consistent symptoms seen more often than not) of PTSD, depression, panic disorders, and people in abusive relationships. If this fic moves you I’d love it if you’d consider giving a little money to any group of your choice that helps both men and women in domestic abuse situations – men trapped in domestic abuse is never talked about enough. I’ve also volunteered for a local domestic abuse shelter in the past so I’m sure you can understand why the ‘romantic’ portrayal of Stiles and Malia’s relationship makes me so angry.
> 
> The others might seem pretty OOC as well, or you might be confused over why they don’t seem to realise something is wrong/be annoyed by how they treat Stiles, but the important thing is that they are all trying to overcome severe trauma in their own way and that they’re all struggling.
> 
> Warnings/triggers: this fic will deal with domestic abuse and rape with a man as the victim and a woman as the assaulter. It also covers suicidal thoughts/impulses/attempts, self-harm, PTSD, panic attacks, and (none-intentional) unhealthy weight loss. If any of these affect you please avoid this fic and I hope you’re getting support. Lastly, there will be some graphic sexual-gore in the depiction of a nightmare involving Allison/Stiles (sorry!)
> 
> Please, if you really love Malia, or Stalia, I would recommend you either don’t read this or read it with an open mind. Malia in this is in many ways just as much of a victim as Stiles, and that’s kind of the whole point.

Stiles looked at the words projected on the wall and felt his gut clench.

For his social studies class a spokesperson for RAINN had come in to give a short presentation on the sobering facts of domestic abuse, starting extensively with the shameful statistics and facts of rampant female domestic violence.

Stiles, growing up the way he had with his father in law enforcement along with his own innate curiosity, had already known most of what the nice lady ‘call me, Shelly’ had said.

Now though, just as she was starting to wind to a close, she had moved on to statistics on male domestic violence. It had caused the unsurprising clamour of a few of the more jockish guys in the back, who laughed, loudly proclaiming that all men who were assaulted by a woman were pansies and other such endearing terms.

Shelly had become a bit flustered over the disturbance (she was so new to the job it hurt) and had paused the slide show while she tried to calm them down leaving the words on the screen to stare accusingly down at Stiles as he couldn’t quite bring himself to look away.

‘1 in 33 men will experience an attempted or completed rape in their lifetime.’

The words seemed to grow; stretching out towards him accusingly in an attempt to engulf him.

“Stiles!”

Stiles jerked, almost fell out of his seat, and was caught by a familiar hand.He looked up into concerned brown eyes.

“Are you okay, dude?” Scott asked worriedly. “Your heart rate was going crazy and I called you, like, five times.”

Kira was leaning over her table behind Scott, apprehension etched into her pretty face, and Isaac and Lydia one row further over were watching him carefully. He could even see Danny looking over, slightly confused. Malia though, who was seated behind Stiles, was doodling on her notepad; just as she had been since the start of the lesson. “Yeah,” Stiles croaked and then winced internally at how bad his voice sounded.

“Yeah, I just spaced out for a sec.”

It wasn’t really a lie but Scott still sent him a doubtful frown as Stiles settled back into his seat.

Shelly was apparently done with arguing with the jocks and stalked back to the front.

“I find it horrifying that you boys can joke over such a thing, since this is no laughing matter,” she snapped as she whirled to face the room, face set in indignant outrage.

“Given the statistics it is more than likely that a boy in this very class will at some point in his life be sexually assaulted. Someone you boys know. How would you feel about it if it happened to one of your friends?”

Stiles wanted to melt into the floor as she tilted her chin up triumphantly when the jocks quieted. She was just turning back to continue on with her slid show when one of the boys stage-whispered that he wouldn’t be friends with someone who ‘wasn’t even man enough to stand up for himself against a chick’.

Shelly had apparently given up as she didn’t look at them again and continued on with her back ramrod straight, ending on the depressing fact that over two and a half million men in the US were victims of sexual assault.

The bell rang for lunch and Stiles couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He ignored Scott’s startled cry behind him and dashed to the nearest bathroom.

After locking himself in a stall and slumping down on the toilet, Stiles spent the next five minutes fighting off a panic attack as it tried to claw its way out of his chest.

Scott didn’t come looking for him, but with how tense their relationship had been recently Stiles didn’t blame him. He had heard his phone buzz a couple of times though, yet it just wasn’t in him to reach for it.

Once he felt like he wouldn’t fold like a paper bag the next time someone looked at him he cautiously made his way out of the stall and over to the sinks.

He still looked like a walking corpse.

It had been two weeks since the Nogistune had been stopped and it had been one week since Malia had turned up, both at the school and in Stiles’ home.

As Stiles reached for the tap he noticed that his hands were shaking, but they did that so much these days that he had had to adapt and try to function with them. He just had to be a little more careful when he picked things up and not to hold anything fragile. Everyone just dismissed it as his clumsiness rearing its head again anyway.

The Nogitsune while it was in control of him hadn’t bothered to eat any ‘human’ food. All it had needed was pain, suffering, chaos and it was stuffed while Stiles’ body had withered away. While it had drunk water (presumably because it hadn’t wanted Stiles’ body to die quite that quickly), Stiles dreaded to think how much worse off he might be if not for the few times he’s been in control enough to eat a little.

Lacrosse season was fast approaching again, but Stiles knew he probably wouldn’t be able to run a hundred feel without his legs turning to wet noodles with the way he was right now and he was seriously considering not playing this year. Scott as team captain would understand, Coach however wouldn’t and the man hated to lose any players on the team, no matter how useless he perceived them to be.

All of the strength and stamina he’d gained after a year of running for his life had been taken from him in a month.

With a suppressed growl Stiles yanked on the tap, causing the water to come out too fast and splash across his t-shirt but he didn’t care as he scooped handfuls of it to rinse across his face. He turned off the tap and stared at his dripping reflection, mercilessly taking in the bags under the eyes, the jutting cheekbones, and the hollow expression.

“Get it together, Stilinski,” he snapped before turning away.

A small poster stuck on the back of the door caught his eye and he couldn’t help the small whine that came out of his mouth. It was like a punch to the chest all over again.

Allison’s memorial was taking place later that day after school had let out.

The photo of her on the poster was one he knew Lydia had taken on an evening when a meeting about the alpha pack at Derek’s loft had turned into a pizza and movie/embarrassing stories session. Lydia had captured the image of Allison laughing as Stiles had been finishing up the story over how Scott had got that scar shaped like a dolphin on his ass. It was a lovely picture that had encapsulated everything that had made Allison so beautiful both inside and out. And now that beautiful, smart, funny, deadly girl would never grow into the woman she had been blossoming into and it was all Stiles’ fault.

He barely got back into the toilet before what little he’d had for breakfast came back up.

When he finally left the bathroom, eyes lowered to avoid Allison’s smiling face, he walked straight into Malia outside who raised an eyebrow at him.

“You reek,” was all she said before grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him along to where everyone was seated outside.

Just looking at their food made Stiles’ stomach turn over.

“Er, you know my stomach isn’t feeling so good, so maybe-”

“Sit,” Malia snapped and pushed him down before plonking herself between his legs.

Isaac let out a low whistle and smirked at Stiles.

“She’s got you totally whipped,” he sniggered, but the bravado was obviously forced and everyone except Malia, who was chowing down on a thick sandwich, picked at their food and avoided each other’s eyes.

“You feeling better?” Scott cut through the awkward silence and Stiles tried to send him a reassuring smile but didn’t think he succeeded. Malia’s body was heavy on his chest and he didn’t feel like he could breathe properly.

“Yeah, I was just feeling a little sick.” Scott looked as though Stiles had just announced that he’d been vomiting blood.

“What? Do you want me to take you home? Or we could drop in on mom in the hospital.”

Scott’s grief over losing Allison seemed to be manifesting itself into an intense fear of anyone else he cared for getting hurt to an alarming degree, Stiles included on the days Scott could bring himself to look at him, today being one of those days.

“No, dude, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Scott did not look happy.

“If you’re sure. But promise me that if you’re still feeling bad tomorrow that you’ll stay home.”

An ache spread through Stiles’ chest at the care being show towards him; care he didn’t deserve. Scott truly was one of the best people he knew.

“I promise.”

xXx

Stiles hadn’t been able to bring himself to go to Allison’s memorial.

Scott and the others had been so accepting about it that Stiles had wanted to beg them to just blame him already. Be angry, be hateful, just don’t give me gentle, supportive understanding, he’d wanted to scream at them but he knew it was useless.

He’d driven out to a lookout point in the Preserve and had just sat there, blankly staring at the view but taking in none of it as the seconds of Allison’s memorial had ticked past. Finally he hadn’t been able to take it any longer and had headed home. Malia was waiting for him, spread out on his bed as if she belonged there while flicking through one of the photo albums that contained the years before his mother died.

He felt a flare of cold fury. She had _no_ right to touch that. He was about to do… something when the rational side of his brain finally managed to worm its way through all the mind-blanketing rage and inform him that she had no way of knowing that that wasn’t to be touched.

“Malia,” he said carefully, his voice cracking under the strain to keep it even. “Why aren’t you at Allison’s memorial with the others?”

She glanced up at him and sent him one of her blank little smiles before her eyes dropped back to the album and she turned to another page.

“Couldn’t be bothered. It’s not like I knew her.”

All of the anger drained out of Stiles and he folded in on himself at her words.

“It’s not about whether you knew her or not, Malia. It’s about the fact that I knew her, Scott knew her, the whole pack which you are now part of knew her. It’s about going with them to support them.”

She looks up at him again, nonplussed.

“But you didn’t go.”

It wasn’t even an accusation, Malia was just stating the facts like she always did, but it still felt like one.

“The-the pack understand why I couldn’t go, but you should have still gone with them to show some support. Allison was important to all of us, especially Scott and Lydia. They could have really done with you there.”

Malia titled her head, a faint frown on her face, as though she was really trying to comprehend what he was saying. Then she tossed the album to one side where it slid off the bed and thumped on to the floor, pushed herself up and was in front of Stiles before he had taken his eyes off of the album and the now loose photos that were poking out. He could see his mother’s smiling face.

“Stiles,” Malia spoke as though he were two years old. “I’ve already told you I don’t care about them. You’re all that’s important.”

“And I’ve already told you that they’re important to me.”

Any conception of understanding failed to flash across Malia’s face and Stiles let out a bone-weary sigh before dropping him bag by his desk and moving over to the bed. He crouched and carefully wrapped his hands around the soft green album, ensuring that the photos didn’t fall out any further, and picked it up. Suddenly a hand appeared in his vision and carelessly pulled the album from his hands before dumping it on the bedside table. A photo spun gently to the floor, his mother’s form visible for a second, but before Stiles could reach for it he was pushed onto the bed and Malia was straddling his hips.

“You’re upset,” she announced. “Let’s do something to take your mind off things.”

With a smile that Stiles was starting to see as more teeth-baring than anything else, her hands were suddenly at the waist of his jeans, sliding the button out and going for the zip.

Stiles wasn’t even aware of his hands moving, but they were suddenly gripping hers, trying to draw them away from his jeans.

Did she seriously expect him to have sex with her while Allison’s memorial was going on? While Scott and the others would be standing there, trying to figure out how they’re meant to go on without her, and he was tearing himself apart inside over the Allison shaped void in all of their lives that was his fault hisfault _hisfault_.

Malia’s frown was deepening and she was beginning to look angry as he fumbled for words. He knew that she wouldn’t understand if he tried to explain that to her.

“Er, er, homework! We gotta do our homework! C’mon, you know that if you don’t keep up with the classes that you won’t be able to stay in them with us.”

He knew his heartbeat wouldn’t give its tell-tale jump that she was hopefully listening for and there was a long, frozen moment as Malia stared down at him, every inch a predator, before she groaned, rolled her eyes and slid off him. Stiles let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding.

“Fine, but we’re continuing this after.”

The sick feeling returned.

xXx

As Stiles lay in bed that night with Malia tightly wrapped around him, his traitorous thoughts started to drift back over his interactions with her, trying to figure out what had given her the impression that he had wanted to be her ‘one and only’.

He had only seen her the one time before Eichen House in which he’d said a total of zero words to her, and their first actual interaction, where Stiles had been so relieved to find someone that he knew, had resulted in her punching him.

After that he’d tried to get Malia to help him, putting everything his exhausted, petrified mind and failing body had into finding whatever might help stop the Nogitsune since Morrell had told him that she’d kill him the next time it took over.

He’d been without sleep by that point for more than forty-eight hours, he knew that medically he’d be classed as mentally in a similar state to a drunk; everything hurt, he was constantly cold, thoughts were hard to gather, clues that he normally would have picked up on right away kept slipping past him, he couldn’t stand straight, and everything was clouded in a fog of terror of not being able to tell if anything was even real.

He remembered the next time he’d talked to Malia she had been in the shower in the men’s bathroom. Even in all his fuzziness and his conviction throughout that their conversation probably wasn’t real, Stiles could recall pointedly trying to respect her privacy as she had talked about how cold she was as a human. Then had come her reveal of how Scott and Stiles had essentially destroyed her life and her ultimatum: that she’s help them if they helped her find out how to change back. Stiles, out of desperation, had agreed and had privately thought that from what he’s seen of her so far that she was more suited to be a coyote than a human, so it was no great loss.

She’s helped him get the keys from the power-mad Brunski, but that plan had quickly fallen through (something that Stiles would have likely been able to avoid if he’d been firing on all cylinders,) resulting in Stiles being sedated, to his absolute terror; convinced that he’d never wake up again because either Morrell would find him and kill him or the Nogitsune would take the reins again.

When Malia had managed to wake him, the sedatives still coursing through his system combined with intense fear and exhaustion made everything feel like a dream and far away. Sound came to him as though he were underwater. He couldn’t remember much as the sedatives continued to try to do their job and had to content himself with short flashes of memory: the both of them slipping through the closed unit, Stiles tottering and stumbling with every step, the Japanese symbol for ‘self’ on the wall and a vague sense of puzzlement over when they’d managed to get into the basement. There had been old papers, lots of old papers with terrible, outdated medical techniques complete with overly-detailed pictures. Then the next thing he knows they’re on an old bed? Couch? Kissing. Malia’s top is gone and he’s so confused but so grateful for the closeness because he’s so lost and scared and he thinks he’s either going to kill someone he cares about or die himself. He doesn’t think they have sex; he was so sedated there should have been no medical possibility that he could have got an erection. He can remember burying his head in her neck and he thinks he might have been kissing it, more out of a sort of ‘ _thank you for being here_ ’ than anything else, but then the next thing he knew Malia was back over by the wall, knocking on it, resulting in a hollow sound. Then there was the corpse, pain, Oliver, trapped, Malia unconscious and her head about to be drilled open, fear, fear, _fear_ , surrender, then no more until he woke up in Scott’s living room, the memories of what the Nogitsune had done while in charge leaking into his head like drips from a faulty faucet.

After that he hadn’t seen Malia again, and with Allison and everything else he honestly hadn’t given her another thought.

Then it had happened:

Stiles had been caught up in another nightmare.

The Nogisune had shown him everything it had been doing while it had been in control of Stiles, but after it had ‘died’ all of its memories from after it had separated from Stiles flowed into him, causing him to black out as their connection (agonisingly) severed.

Those memories would run through his head every night, sometimes twisting into something fabricated, other times just playing out word for word over and over again. That night had been strange though:

It had started out with memories, specifically the memories of Allison’s death. Over and over he watched her fighting so fiercely, then she would turn and the look of shock on her face as the blade stabbed through her was one Stiles would never forget. However, the fourth or fifth time everything changed.

The Oni still stabbed her, but instead of falling after it withdrew the blade she turned towards Stiles, smiled and then walked over as though she wasn’t leaving pools of blood in here wake in the place of footprints. As soon as she was in front of him she snaked her hands into his pants, wrapping her long fingers around his cock and tugged it free.

Stiles gaped at her as she grinned at him, blood running from the side of her mouth and staining her teeth.

“You only had to ask, Stiles,” she laughed as she began to jerk him off and Stiles felt as if all of his limbs were trapped in molasses, too heavy to move, as blood filled his cock.

It was horrible, horrible, horrible, but the smooth hand, smaller and so different from his own, was forcing a reaction of the most primal type that made him want to scream as the stimulation igniting his body warred with the horror of his mind.

“Please stop,” he whispered, but Allison laughed and just sped up a little.

Pre come was dripping off the tip of his erection and still Stiles couldn’t move. It felt like his lungs couldn’t draw in enough breath and when he tried to speak again nothing came out. Scott and the others were just standing there, watching and emotionless.

“I know something that’ll feel even better,” Allison teased, and the blood was pouring down her chin now, all over their fronts and Stiles’ erection.

Stiles tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t. Then she was sliding down his body a little, blood filled mouth still smiling up at him as her eyes started to sink in their sockets and her hair became limper and started to fall out.

“Relax,” she crooned as she slid Stiles’ cock into the gaping wound the Oni had left in her.

It was hot, wet, and pulsed around him but all Stiles wanted to do was vomit and scream hysterically over she sheer _insanity_ of it all.

She started to move, swaying backwards and forwards with increasing strength while Stiles’ mind felt like it was starting to crumble. Everything around them was fading away and he wasn’t breathing but he didn’t want to anyway.

Allison glanced down in apparent satisfaction at where he was joined to her before looking up; her face now that of a long-dead corpse.

“ _So how did it feel to kill me_?”

With a gasp Stiles had jolted awake only to be pushed back down onto the bed a second later. Tears had filled his vision, there was bile in his mouth, and his head was swirling and ringing and _something was wrong_.

“Took you long enough. Now you can join in.”

“I’m still dreaming,” he’d croaked out as his vision cleared because there was no way that Malia Tate would be in his room and fucking herself up and down on his cock with a smug expression in reality.

“Then want me to wake you up?” Malia had purred in a way that might be construed as sexy if she wasn’t currently raping him.

Before he could answer she leaned forward and sunk her teeth into his shoulder. In response to the pain his hands flew up and tried to push her off, but she caught them and pinned them down, claws digging in with the promise of what would happen if he did it again as a growl rumbled through her naked chest and into his clothed one, rattling his ribcage and making his heart stutter.

He surrendered.

After that it had been a blur of muffled cries on Stiles’ part as his hand was clamped over his mouth, because he’d damn well shoot himself if his dad walked in on this humiliation, more blood and pain as she bit him again, a physical sense of growing pleasure as she worked herself on him combined in a nauseating mix with disgust and fear as her eyes started to glow blue and her claws started to rake over his chest, catching on the still healing wound across his stomach in bright flares of agony. Then shame, deeper than he’d ever felt – even more than him losing his dads job, even more than killing Allison - as he climaxed. He slung an arm over his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at her as a hysterical part of his brain reminded him that he couldn’t make jokes about being a virgin anymore.

He wasn’t wearing a condom either and in a detached way wondered how freaked out he should be about that on top of everything else.

She’d pulled herself off him with a sound that made him cringe and cuddled up to his side, running blunt, human fingers over the bloody bite marks.

“I like these,” she’d murmured sleepily as she started to drift off. “They show everyone that you’re mine, my mate, even to the humans.”

Stiles had lain awake for the rest of the night, mind reeling over what she’d said, too scared to even move in case he woke her up, besides the twitching of his hands as he counted his fingers over and over again. Every time he reached ten and no more he re-started, trying to convince himself he was wrong.

The next morning Stiles had valiantly gathered his shredded dignity and tried to get rid of her; throwing every excuse he could think of at her – your dad must be worried. Did you check out of Eichen House? Don’t you want to settle back into your own home? Scott will need to know that you’re around. You need to see Deaton because you didn’t use a condom and regular birth control might not work on you - while also trying to do it in a way that wasn’t too antagonistic in case she lashed out again. The bite and claw marks she’d left on him throbbed in a dull yet persistent way, just sharp enough for him to be unable to forget about them, making him want to scratch them off and call for his mom at the same time. Self-harm and regression, never a good sign, but then again he’d just been… assaulted. He couldn’t say the other word because that would finish him.

While she agreed to go and see Deaton later that day, Malia in return had seemed genuinely perplexed at his questions and had explained to him that her dad could barely look at her as her inability to comprehend even basic human interactions apparently made him feel like he’d failed her and that she was too broken to fix. (Or rather she’d said “dad said that I’m broken and he can’t fix me when I tried to attack the postman. I don’t see why I shouldn’t have, he was invading my territory.”)

She’d drawn in on herself a little and Stiles saw for the first time how small she was in comparison to him as she’d mumbled out that she didn’t understand why people kept telling her she was doing something wrong. To her the things she did made perfect sense. She must have been feeling really lost and Stiles was apparently for some reason the only thing making things a little better for her.

Stiles had caved, reasoning that Malia wasn’t a bad person; she just didn’t understand human constructs of right and wrong.

While that reasoning hadn’t made his experience that night any less horrific – Stiles could still almost feel his sanity crumbling if he dwelled on it for too long – it made it a little more bearable. He was sure that Malia could be taught these things and that it would just require a bit of patience, but if the whole pack got behind it she’d start picking it up in no time. He was sure. He had to be.

(He wasn’t.)

xXx

In the following week Stiles learned quite a few important facts about Malia:

She had a very animalistic understanding of sex and mates; while it made sense given that she’d been a coyote during her initial pubescent years.

The human understanding she had of it that she had barely started to gain before it was cut off when she was nine was so thin on the ground that it was pretty much non-existent – she vaguely remembered some Disney films and talking with girls in her class over what her wedding dress would be like, which was probably the reason why after their kiss she assumed that he wanted to be together with her for the rest of his life, aka ‘mates’. Fucking Disney.

In contrast, while she was a coyote and coming into her sexual maturity she had seen many animals mating and since turning back she’d simply never stopped to consider that humans might do it differently. Stiles had tried to explain, but it had gone over her head.

The fact that she couldn’t understand something as simple as consent meant it was impossible for her to comprehend something as complex as PTSD (something which Stiles would have to be a fool not to recognise in himself after a lifetime of living with a cop and ex-military father.)

She would get annoyed when he would drift off in the middle of a conversation, frustrated when he wouldn’t be able to go in to certain places, like Deaton’s practice (just standing outside made him feet the distinctive grip of the katana hilt in his hand again, the grating, resistant feel thrumming up the blade as he had twisted it, and the horrible gasps, yelps, and pleas Scott had made echoed in his ears.)

One day at school, during a free period, they had turned down an empty corridor and when Stiles had realised that it was the corridor he’d been sucked into a flashback so vivid it was as though he was there again, backing away with Lydia down the hall as the Nogitsune had strode towards them. He’d apparently started making some pretty strange noises and had freaked Malia out, who had responded to it by punching him so hard it not only knocked him out of the flashback, but also knocked one of his back teeth out. (He’d told his dad he’d been hit by a particularly hard lacrosse ball that night as he sat in the kitchen with a bag of frozen peas pressed against the swelling.)

She also got infuriated by his nightmares. Her dreams were apparently very primal – hunting prey in the woods and similar things – so she couldn’t really understand what was causing him so much trouble. For the most part she just left him to them, but if he started thrashing too much she would wake him by kicking him out of the bed, or something equally gentle, then tell him to shut up and then go back to sleep.

After a particularly bad night he’d stumbled across a photo of Allison on his computer while he was trying to avoid sleep and the coyote in his bed and started having a panic attack. Malia woke up and dealt with it the way she’d been dealing with whatever she found irritating/alarming about him: she punched him. He passed the black eye off as him being clumsy again. No one questioned him even though the bruise on his jaw was still vivid.

When he’d talked to her about maybe using a gentler approach to snapping him out of his panic attacks/flashbacks, she’d arched her eyebrow at him and said bluntly “but it works; it’s satisfying for me when you’re being that annoying and it’s funny to watch your reaction.”

And that was how Stiles learned that she thought his body coped with pain the same way hers did: that it could be bad, but that it was always very brief.

She always prodded the injuries she inflicted on him with a strange fascination when they didn’t heal right away, “weird,” she’d say and if pushed she’d respond that she was pleased that everyone could see her ‘claims’ on him, then go back to whatever she was doing.

Stiles had tried to explain it to her, but her mind-set was stubbornly set on ‘I heal fast, so you must heal fast too. Maybe you’re just a freak.’

By the time the third week rolled around Stiles had all but given up and reasoned that this was probably karma or something after what he’d done.

It didn’t stop him from feeling trapped when she was around him though.

In a fit of desperation he’d shown Scott that marks that she’d left on his back the night before. Scott had seemed rather startled by it, but caught up in his own significant problems he hadn’t spoken about it any further. Stiles was too ashamed to openly say to him ‘I’m being abused by Malia, please help me.’ Scott had enough on his plate already.

Next he’d tried to get his dad’s opinion over the fact that Malia had basically moved into their house. It turned out that the Sheriff thought it was ‘sweet’ that Malia wanted to ‘look after him’, and that he was relieved that Stiles had someone around when he couldn’t be after everything Stiles had gone through. He was starting to draw away from Stiles again, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to beg him to stay.

So Stiles gave up on that side of things too. It had gone on too long for him to be able to justify why he’d let it continue, so he’d just have to wait and hope that as Malia started to learn that she’d ease up.

She didn’t. Like when it came to sex:

Sex with Malia was a very one-sided thing. If she wanted to have sex there was very little he could do to persuade her otherwise. She would always pin him down, jerk him off until he got hard, and then ride him until she was satisfied. Other than his cock he never touched her, he was rather revolted by the thought actually, and he would usually lie there with his arms thrown over his face so he wouldn’t be able to see her.

He always cried when he came, hating that he was being betrayed by his own body, and he’d been relieved that Malia had never thought anything of it until the day the pack (now including Danny since his whole ‘I know you guys are werewolves, duh’ deal) had been sitting on the lacrosse bleachers at lunch. Danny, to try to lighten everyone’s spirits, had started talking about a humours one night stand he’s had at the weekend and it had all been going well until he’d said “-and then he burst into tears as he came. I didn’t know what to do. I was all ‘okay, the sex was good, but not _that_ good,’ y’know?”

Everyone had found it amusing except Stiles, who had been getting a sinking feeling in his stomach as he’d watched the frown spread over Malia’s face, and then-

“Stiles cries when he comes.”

Silence.

“Really?” Isaac had choked out.

Malia looked even more nonplussed.

“Yeah, every time.”

Kira had almost buried her head in her lunch in desperation not to see Stiles’ face, Lydia was looking unimpressed, Danny was trying to hide a small smile, Isaac wasn’t even bothering to attempt to hide the smirk spreading across his face, and Scott just looked adorably confused.

Stiles hadn’t thought his humiliation could go any deeper. Surprise, surprise, it could.

They hadn’t stopped teasing him yet, (perhaps out of a desperation for normalcy as their laughter seemed more manic than amused and their eyes a little glazed,) even during their weekly pack meeting at Derek’s loft that had left Derek looking utterly baffled. Stiles couldn’t bring himself to go to another pack meeting after that, and while no one bothered him about it the jokes did finally stop.

The only small mercy to come out of the increase in his degradation was that he was now so disgusted by his own body’s reactions that his mind was starting to overpower his bodily responses and there were an increasing number of times when she was unable to get him hard at all. It usually resulted in a few new claw marks as she’d get frustrated over it, but he was more than happy to have those instead.

Hand in hand with the unwanted sex was that he couldn’t bring himself to masturbate any more. The last time he had had been before the whole Nogitsune mess, but whenever he’d been gifted with some precious alone time in the shower (more often than not Malia joined him, even when he asked her not to,) the mere idea of touching himself had made him feel sick.

He kept forgetting to take his Adderall too; making his ADHD much worse and Malia would often retaliate to his failure to focus on one thing for more than a minute, or his rambling, or his inability to keep still, with a snarl and claws.

However, if Stiles had to choose the worst thing was her casual indifference towards his friends and family: she made it clear multiple times that she wouldn’t give a damn if anything happened to them. She’d even said she wouldn’t care if they died and that broke Stiles in a way nothing else she’s done to him had. The pack, his dad and Melissa were the only things keeping him going right now, she had to know how important they were to him since he’d told her enough times, and for her to say that she wouldn’t care if anything happened to them told Stiles how little she really thought of him.

So, slowly, and without any sadistic intentions, Malia was dismantling what little remained of his life and sanity.

Stiles finds himself beginning to hate her. (When he isn’t too busy being terrified of her.)


	2. Shade Without Colour

A month into Malia literally fucking her way into his life Stiles cracks.

His dad was on the night shift and Malia had wasted no time in taking advantage of that, after Stiles had pleaded with her for days not to have sex with him while the Sheriff was in the house, throwing out that if they were caught that she might not be allowed to stay. She had grudgingly acquiesced, but it meant on nights like these she’d be even more eager.

After she was sated she’d slipped out of bed only long enough to down one of the tablets Deaton had given her before wrapping herself around Stiles’ back and quickly falling into a satisfied sleep, leaving Stiles once again bruised, a little bloody, and staring blankly at the wall.

The house that he’d grown up in, shared those precious years with his mother in, had laughed and cried, had loved and lost in, no longer felt like it was his. It no longer felt safe for him. At school after Malia had left he’d find himself dithering in the library, or looking for an excuse to go to Scott’s on the days the young alpha could be around him.

It was a bleak thing to realise that you’re avoiding your own home.

Suddenly he felt suffocated. He had to get out and away from Malia, just for a bit.

Knowing that she slept like the dead for a couple of hours after sex he had little problem untangling her arms from around him, slipping out of the bed, pulling on some clothes and trying not to hiss as they slid over his newest injuries, grabbing his keys and phone, and heading downstairs and out the door.

The cold night air cleared his head a little, making him feel lighter and cleaner than he’d felt in a long time as he jumped into his jeep. He released the handbrake without switching on the engine and backed the jeep out of the driveway.

The street was built on a very slight incline, not enough to really notice when walking, but enough to get the jeep’s tires rolling and only when he deemed himself far enough away did Stiles turn the key in the ignition.

He simply drove for a while, not encountering too many other cars so late, but careful to still obey the laws of the road as the last thing he wasn’t to deal with right now was his dad or one of his deputies.

Gradually he made his way out of the town and onto the Preserve roads.

It took a little bit more driving to realise that he was unconsciously heading towards the old Hale house and he thought ‘why not?’

The ruins were unsurprisingly dark when he pulled up and for a long moment Stiles just stared at the house; trying to remember the one time he’d seen it before it burned.

He couldn’t recall much, too many years of seeing the burnt out husk had replaced the few minutes he’d spent there with his mom as a child. There’d been lots of potted plants on the porch, and the house, even from Stiles’ vantage point outside, had been filled with a constant stream of noise: shouts and laughter, a hum of chatter, crashes and bangs from what must have been the kitchen, thudding of feet, slamming of doors. So much life, and Stiles with his family of three (not that’s he’d change his parents for the world) had been jealous.

The house was eerily still now, not even the usual clamour of nightlife disturbing the grave of such a tragedy.

Stiles slumped back in his seat, a different bitterness at how fucked up the world was filling him.

What had he even come here for? To remind himself that some had it far worse? Like he needed a visual reminder for that: sometimes Derek would have this sag to him, as though the weight of all that he’d lost was so great that even with all his enhanced strength he couldn’t remain standing. Derek Hale, the asshole. Derek Hale, who was broken in a way that Stiles could so easily make sense of, so he couldn’t hate him even though he wanted to. Instead, Stiles would ache to help him; an itch that persisted even though he couldn’t even help himself.

He drifted from his thoughts of Derek to realise that from his position he could just make out a bit of the night sky before it was cut off by the jeeps roof and the trees. With the light pollution from the town behind him the sky was exceptionally clear.

Scrambling for the door handle, Stiles almost fell out of the car, more focused on the sky then where he was putting his feet.

He took a few paces away from the jeep and then stopped, his breath hissing in between his teeth in awe of the display before him as he stared up at the stars.

He and his mother had always loved looking at them together and he had many a bittersweet memory of the two of them sitting out on the back porch, wrapped in a blanket together, as she had taught him their names. He’d stopped stargazing after she’d died, but he’d found himself increasingly drawn to the night sky again after he’d had to start keeping track of the moon’s cycles.

He hadn’t seen them this clearly for a very long time though.

The Milky Way stretched above him, incomprehensively massive ghostly streaks of dust covered in jewel-like specks of burning stars.

It stilled his mind in a way few other things could and Stiles stood marvelling at it until his neck started to ache and he became aware of how cold he was.

Many would find it morbid, but Stiles took comfort in the reminder that the stars gave him of how small he was, not even a grain of sand in comparison to the rest of the galaxy, and how all his problems were infinitesimal in the greater scheme of things – the universe would continue on without the slightest blip once he was gone. He was only and magnificently made of stardust, and stardust he would continue to be once his heart gave out and his body crumbled. For him there was something very freeing in that thought, in knowing that he wasn’t important, and for a while he breathed easier than he had in months.

Eventually the cold became too much for him, but the last thing Stiles wanted to do was go home, so he went back to the car, opened it, pushed the seat forward and pulled his ‘emergency’ bag out from the back.

His emergency bag was something he’d always had, ever since he’d been given the jeep. His dad had one in the boot of the cruiser and expected Stiles to do the same and Stiles had no arguments against it because it was a damn sensible, if slightly paranoid, idea. However, over the past year several more things had been added to it.

Stiles untied the sleeping bag that was attached to the top of it and then, after a pause, unzipped the bag and dug around, sifting past the Swiss army knife, large first aid kit complete with vials of mountain ash and several types of wolfsbane, two torches, matches, spare set of clothes, a small amount of money hidden in an old film canister and tucked into the bags lining, a ball of strong twine, and a set of long-rang walkie talkies, before he got to the bottom and managed to pull out the blanket that he’d been using to protect everything else.

He didn’t want to sleep in the jeep itself because he wanted to keep looking at the stars, so after some exploring he found a small room at the side of the Hale house that seemed to be in fairly good condition. If he lay on the floor then he could easily see the sky through the broken upper half of the window as the porch roof had collapsed outside, and with the door closed and the lower half of the window intact that should (hopefully) keep him safe from any predators. Just in case though, he’d grabbed his baseball bat.

The mere fact that he was choosing to stay in as unsafe of a place as the crumbling old Hale house rather than return to his securely standing home spoke volumes as to just how one-sided his interactions with Malia were: he’d been trying to fool himself into believing that it was something he could cope with until she learned better and that she was a nice girl who simply didn’t understand that what she was doing was wrong. It was only now that he was slipping into his sleeping bag on a uncomfortable floor that might not even be able to hold him, using a bundled up blanket as a rather poor excuse for a pillow, and trying to ignore the pervading smell of mildew, smoke, and rot as he craned his neck up so he could keep his eyes fixed on the stars through the broken window that he finally had to admit to himself that this…‘relationship’ with Malia was nothing but toxic.

The pinpricks of light blurred as tears filled his eyes. He knew that if he’d met Malia before the whole Nogitsune thing had happened he would have stopped her the moment he had woken up on that first night. Even if she’d have clawed at him and used her strength further than she had he wouldn’t have backed down; he’d have screamed at her, tried to reach his bat, yelled for his dad, anything to have made her stop. But now… now even though he had finally admitted that what was going on between him and Malia was unacceptable, he still couldn’t shut off the small voice in the back of his head that was whispering to him that he deserved everything she did to him.

Even as he tried to ignore the whispers and focus on the stars he could feel his eyelids growing heavier and heavier until finally he drifted off to sleep.

The nightmares took on a different flavour that night.

One of the ‘gifts’ the Nogitsune had left him with, and yet another thing he was never intending to let anyone know, was that it hadn’t just left him the memories of what it had done during the time he’d physically been possessed, and during the time it had worn his face and slowly continued sucking the life from him after they’d been separated. No, it had left him _all_ of its memories.

For the most part Stiles managed to keep them shut out, simply because it seemed there was no way his human mind could suddenly deal with the influx of over a thousand years’ worth of information, and it locked them away as a survival mechanism. But sometimes, like in his dreams, some of them slipped through, which was how Stiles knew more than anyone just how much the Nogitsune had been playing with them all; if it had gone after them seriously there wouldn’t have been a Beacon Hills left at the end of it.

So he dreamed of breaking people, highly influential and nobodies alike, for fun; bringing down entire countries for giggles (the Nogistune’s favourite technique had been inciting a civil war and watching it destroy itself,) and turning rivers red out of boredom.

Stiles woke early the next morning knowing the entire life of a Japanese noblewoman, called Tomoe, who had been slowly but surely driven mad by the Nogitsune, resulting in her butchering her husband, children, and in-law’s before she was executed. The delight it’d felt as she’d spotted it in the crowd; watching what little remained of her shattered mind fall apart before its eyes as she’d realised everything had happened exactly as it’d planned was orgasmically intense, and Stiles had woken as he was riding out the last of it.

He’d managed to claw his way free of his sleeping bag and made it outside before he threw up. As his stomach had been mostly empty he’d ended up dry heaving; setting himself off a couple more times by shifting and feeling the cooling mess between his legs.

Shaking, light-headed, and even more exhausted than the night before Stiles cleaned himself up as best as possible and then headed home.

He slipped into his own house like a thief as the sun started to peek over the horizon, stripped and shoved his clothes to the bottom of the laundry basket in the bathroom and jumped into the shower.

After, instead of going into his room to get clean clothes and risk Malia catching him he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed downstairs.

In the tiny laundry room there was a basket full of clean but unfolded clothes that he hadn’t got around to yesterday, and after a bit of rooting around he yanked out a creased t-shirt, jeans and some boxer briefs and slipped them on.

He had his head stuck in the fridge with the kettle boiling away on the counter when he heard the familiar sound of the cruiser pulling up on the driveway and a few moments later the front door was opening, his dad was calling his name.

“In the kitchen,” he called back and his dad, tired but smiling gently, appeared in the doorway.

“Hey there, kiddo. Quiet night?”

Stiles thought about Malia, the Hale house, the stars, the nightmare, the come drying in his trousers, and the vomiting.

“Yep. You?”

The sheriff slumped against a counter and yawned.

“Nice and peaceful, just the way I like it.”

Stiles pulled out his dad’s favourite mug, which had been his mom’s, dropped a camomile teabag in and reached for the kettle. Just as he was pouring the water there was a thump from upstairs followed shortly by the bathroom door slamming. His dad sent him a wry grin, missing in his exhaustion the way that Stiles had tensed up as the sound.

“Not much of a morning person is she.”

“Not much of an anything person,” Stiles muttered under his breath as he passed the mug over, but his dad missed that too as he brought the mug up to his nose and took a deep sniff; he only had camomile after a night shift – it had been something Stiles’ mom had prepared for him, citing that it would help him sleep, and it was something Stiles had taken up after she was gone. It was a ritual between them now and kept her close.

“You got lacrosse after school today?”

Stiles hide the wince by turning back to pouring out his cereal. He still hadn’t got around to telling his dad that he’d quit the team a few weeks ago, which had as predicted infuriated Coach until Stiles had promised that he’d still watch the matches so as to help the man out with tactics.

Stiles didn’t want to keep any more secrets than necessary from his dad anymore after the disaster of the last year stretching their relationship to its limits.

“About that-” Stiles began as casually as possible before Malia came into the room like a small tornado.

As usual she completely ignored his dad, the bowl of cereal was pulled from his hands, fruit spilled out of the fruit bowl and over the counter and floor, the fridge door was left open and milk was slopped all over the linoleum.

The two Stilinski’s were left blinking at the mess as Malia made her way into the breakfast room and plunked herself down at the table, shoving cereal into her mouth as she stuffed fruit into her bag and tried to look over her English textbook at the same time.

“I’m going to bed,” the sheriff announced and nudged Stiles’ shoulder as if to say ‘hard luck, buddy’ on his way past. Stiles couldn’t even bring himself to sigh as he closed the fridge and ripped off a few paper towels to mop up the milk.

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Stiles jerked upright, heart hammering, to find Malia back in the kitchen, face set in her usual slightly pissed off/confused expression. Really he should have realised she was a Hale right from the get go. When Lydia had confided in him who Malia’s real father was, all Stiles had been able to say was “I see the resemblance,” to which Lydia had given him a strange look but pressed no further.

“Smelled like you hadn’t been there for a while,” Malia continued and Stiles’ mind scrambled to come up with an excuse that wouldn’t be a lie enough for his heart to not give him away.

“Ah, yeah. Had trouble sleeping and went out to clear my head. It worked pretty well so I’ll probably do it again from time to time.”

She gave him a long look and he fought down the urge to fidget. Finally she shrugged, turned, grabbed her bag and was heading out of the door. She wasn’t really comfortable with being inside cars for understandable reasons and so preferred to head to school on foot, meaning she always left earlier than him.

Stiles sagged against the counter, light headed in relief and hardly daring to believe he’d managed to get himself a fairly flexible out on having to sleep with her at night. After processing it for a few more seconds and counting his fingers again just to make absolutely sure that he wasn’t dreaming, he grinned at nothing and with a more light hearted attitude than he’d had in a long time finished cleaning up the mess, picked some fruit for breakfast instead of trying again with the cereal, grabbed a couple of things for lunch and headed upstairs to get his schoolbag and his much loved purple hoodie.

He didn’t try to fool himself into believing that just because she’d let him have that that it would make the rest of the day better, but he intended to enjoy it for as long as he could.

xXx

Stiles stayed at the Hale house three more times before he was caught.

He’d been careful and spaced them out over a couple of weeks, only going out when he felt like he was being pushed to breaking point.

It showed how unclear his normally sharp mind was though, given that it hadn’t even occurred to him that one of the wolves would know he’d been there if they wandered by, let alone trying to do something about his scent all over the place. And so the fourth time he drove up to the ruin around one AM on a clear Friday night with fresh bruises on his ribs, Derek was waiting for him.

He didn’t even notice the older man to start with, who was doing his usual lurking thing in the shadow of the porch by the front door. Stiles had become complacent in his routine by then on top of his constant exhaustion; not even pausing to look around as he climbed from his jeep and reached into the back to grab his sleeping bag, blanket, and bat. Nor did he notice Derek as he was walking towards the steps, tired eyes instead turned up to take in the stars. No, it wasn’t until he walked into the wall masquerading as a man (who did nothing to stop him doing so), causing him to go stumbling back and almost take a nasty spill down the stairs (which he would have if not for the solid steel grip now around Stiles’ wrist,) that he realised.

“I swear to god you all have some sort of bet on over who can give me a damn heart attack first,” Stiles snapped once he was once again safely upright, which wasn’t exactly the politest thing to say to someone you haven’t seen in weeks.

“Stiles,” Derek all but drawled, cutting right to the chase and ignoring his chatter as usual. “Mind telling me what you’ve been doing out here?”

“Uh, how about no, sourwolf,” Stiles sneered as he tried to get past Derek. Derek though was having none of it and barred his way.

“It smells like you’ve been sleeping out here.”

“That’s because I have, big guy. Holy fuck, would you just move?”

Derek’s frustratingly resilient hand snapped forward again, and before Stiles could blink he had been pressed up against the wall besides the door; not slammed, just pressed very firmly by an unrelenting strength. He tried to hide his grimace as the force of his weight sent small flares of pain up his back from Malia’s most recent scratches. Derek’s eyebrows were quickly moving from ‘everyday irritated’ to ‘your doom is coming’ as he leaned in a little, nostrils flaring.

“Why are you sleeping here, Stiles?”

“Because I have a deep need to be one with nature.”

Derek betrayed his rapidly shortening temper by pressing him a little harder into the wall.

“Yeah? Well you’re going to get your wish when a coyote eats you.”

Stiles had one dizzying moment of fear that Derek knew about what Malia had been doing, and it must have been apparent enough for Derek’s senses because the man pulled his hand away from Stiles as though he’d been burned; and, ha, the irony, given where they were standing.

“You’ve got no problem going nose to nose with an angry werewolf but the thought of a common coyote eating you has got you petrified? I don’t want to know what goes on in your head.”

Stiles could feel the start of a panic attack building; that damned familiar tightening in his chest and breaths getting shorter as his hands started to shake. He let himself slid down the wall, boxing himself in behind his knees in a paltry attempt to shield himself from Derek, who was now looking at Stiles as if _he_ was the most terrifying thing in the world.

Stiles pressed his face into the rough fabric of his jeans and tried to focus on taking deep and slow breaths. It was hard in his position, but he wasn’t unwinding for all the pizza in California.

There was a long moment of silence, beside Stiles’ juddering breaths, but then the wood planks in front of him creaked and he could feel the heat emitting from Derek’s body as he knelt in front of him.

“Stiles?”

Good grief, he must have really unsettled Derek because he’d never heard him sound like that.

“Just give – me - a minute,” he managed to choke out, and almost let out a whine as the band around his chest tightened again.

Then there was gentle heat closing around Stiles’ white knuckled where they were buried in his hair, a strange tugging sensation and then the band around his chest was loosening a little. He managed to raise his head enough to look into glowing blue eyes in a determinedly set (and stupidly handsome) face and he could just make out the darkening of the veins on Derek’s hand and wrist before it disappeared up the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“I can’t take it all as something like this is more psychological than a physical pain, but I can help enough for you to overcome it yourself.”

Well shit, Derek was being practically verbose tonight. If all it took was Stiles trespassing on the gutted remains of his family’s grave and having a panic attack then …no, he couldn’t even finish thinking the sentence. It was working though: the panic attack was withdrawing, leaving him with that shaky feeling that would always take at least a few hours to go away.

Stiles finally managed to unclench his throat enough to grate out a whisper that sounded as though he was suffering from a nasty cold: “coyotes?”

Derek seemed to deem Stiles recovered enough to sit back and Stiles was struck with a strange desperation to grab onto the warm, strong-yet-gentle hand as it drew away – a desperation that he quickly pushed down even as his fingers twitched towards Derek.

“Yeah, there’s been a pretty steady influx of them over the past few weeks turning up on the Preserve. I think it’s because Malia’s not there anymore.”

Stiles actually flinched at the sound of her name, his chest tightening threateningly again, and he pressed his face back into his knees to calm himself down but not before seeing Derek’s eyes narrow.

He tried to play off his flinch as the start of a coughing fit, even though he felt his stomach roil in protest and didn’t bring his head back up until he blinked away the tears it had caused.

“Creepy,” was all he could come up with, but it was apparently the right thing to say as Derek rolled his eyes and pushed himself upright. Then there was a hand waving in Stiles’ face, which he blinked at dumbly.

“You planning on sitting there all night?”

He followed the hand up the arm, over broad shoulders and onto the familiar grumpy face just to ensure that yes, Derek Hale was offering him a hand up. Derek, in response to Stiles’ suspicious squinting, let out a world-weary sigh and started to withdraw his hand and Stiles, on realising what was happening, shot his own hand out lightning fast and clasped it, actually making the werewolf jump a little (although Stiles was sure he’d deny it to his dying day.)

Without the slightest show of strain Derek hoisted Stiles to his feet and then went one step further and steadied him as Stiles’ spinning head caused him to stumble a little. Then Derek seemed to realise what he was doing and pointedly took a step back, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Go home, Stiles,” he snapped and just like that the warm fuzzy moment was over.

“No.”

Derek growled and his eyes flashed threateningly.

“I wasn’t asking you. Go the hell home. It’s too dangerous for you to stay out here.”

“Yeah, well that’s my problem and I think I’m still gonna risk it.”

“This is fucking stupid,” Derek yanked his hand out of his pocket and gestured to their surroundings. “Why on earth would you actually _want_ to stay out here when you have a soft bed waiting for you in your home?”

_Because Malia’s in that soft bed_ , Stiles wanted to say, but instead clenched his jaw and ground out “I have my reasons. Besides, you’re one hell of a hypocrite to talk to me about sleeping here.”

They glared at each other for one long moment, Stiles exhausted and just _done_ with everything, Derek apparently fighting back his shift as his eyes flashed repeatedly, all the while letting out a low, gut-churning growl that Stiles could more feel than hear.

He didn’t know why watching Derek struggle to maintain his temper made him think of it, but Stiles realised that if there was anyone in their rather broken group who could understand what he was going through it was probably Derek.

While he knew little about Kate, he’d pieced together from what had been mentioned in the very through police reports and what Peter had let slip from time to time in his perfectly ‘innocent’ way. All in all it had made a grim picture, but Stiles would never just go up to Derek and ask ‘hey, did Kate abuse you and emotionally manipulate you, playing off of Paige’s death and your guilt over it, to kill your family?’ He had also never mentioned it to the others when it might have been useful to know. On top of it not being his secret to tell it was pretty damn clear to him that Derek still hadn’t recovered from it, and who could blame the man?

There was no way he could bring himself to tell the wolf opposite him about Malia as his mind supplied all of the ways Derek could deny it/scoff at him in vivid HD. What Malia was doing to him compared to what Kate did to Derek wasn’t even on the same playing field. It was stupid of him to have even considered it.

Typical of Stiles, even as his mind was churning his mouth was still dancing to its own tune. “Face it, sourwolf, you can’t make me do shit.”

That seemed to do it for Derek and with a hair-raising snarl he spun away and stomped off into the woods, leaving Stiles blinking at the space he had just been occupying before his tired mind caught up and he stumbled inside after grabbing his things.

His dreams that night were filled with a deep sense of desperation as he raced around a twisted version of the high school, looking for someone he never found.


	3. Gesture Without Motion

Stiles didn’t know what he’d been expecting as he’d pulled up in front of the Hale house two nights after his encounter with Derek, but it wasn’t for the wolf to be waiting for him with an air mattress, storm lantern and some snacks.

“If you’re going to be continuing with this moronic idea of sleeping here then someone needs to make sure you don’t end up a predators chew toy,” was the only reason he managed to get out of Derek as the man had blown up the air mattress in a way that suggested it had personally offended him.

“So why not tell Scott?”

Derek had slowed with the pump, multi-coloured eyes glancing at Stiles where he was slumped on top of his sleeping bag by the wall before quickly ducking back down to his work.

“It’s my property. I’m the one the Sheriff would come after if anything happened to you on it.”

After that Derek had refused to say another word and had practically thrown Stiles onto the mattress when it was finished before stalking out of the room. Stiles, too tired to really protest, shrugged and scrambled ungracefully into his sleeping bag, quickly drifting off.

The nightmares that plagued him that night were like all the others, but something changed: as he was getting caught up in the midst of it – this time he wasn’t just twisting the sword in Scott, he’d got him pinned to the veterinary table like a bug and was slowly cutting him to pieces as he begged – when a gentle pressure ran through his hair, and it was such an alien feeling in a world of such horror that it woke him.

Derek was crouching beside the mattress, running a big, warm hand through Stiles’ hair as he murmured soothing nonsense to him. As soon as he realised that Stiles was awake the soft ramblings ceased, but the hand continued its soft path. Warmth spread through Stiles and for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long he felt safe. His eyes drifted shut again and this time his sleep was dreamless.

When he woke early the next morning it was to find Derek sleeping in the doorway, having wedged himself across it so nothing would be able to get to Stiles without having to climb over him first.

Stiles couldn’t explain why the sight made him choke up so badly and he huddled down into his sleeping bag until he could get a grip on the pitiful sobs that were clawing to get out of his chest.

When he peeked his head out again, tears suppressed, it was to find Derek in exactly the same position apart from the fact that his eyes were open and pinned on Stiles.

Roughly, and desperate for Derek not to say anything, Stiles cleared his throat and clambered out of the sleeping bag.

“I need to get back before my dad gets up.”

Derek gave a nod but said nothing, continuing to stare at him in that impenetrable way he had, and Stiles, feeling exposed, couldn’t leave fast enough.

The day continued in the familiar pattern it had fallen into: he arrived back and got breakfast started before his dad came downstairs in his uniform. They would talk until Malia would blow in, snatch whatever food Stiles had from his hand and blow out again. (He’d read up on canine behaviour as to why she continued to do that and was unsurprised to discover that it meant she was asserting her dominance over him, proclaiming herself the boss in their relationship. She probably didn’t even realise she was doing it; it was such an instinctual thing for her.)

At school the pack walked around like ghosts for the most part, Allison’s absence felt in every stilted conversation and class. Lunch was getting a little more bearable, but every now and then someone would turn to ask Allison’s opinion on something only to be met with empty air, her void sucking everything from them until they were grey and tired. Everyone would come up with an excuse to leave pretty quickly after that, except Malia who would always be at most bemused by their grief.

After school if there was a pack meeting everyone except Stiles would head to Derek’s loft (Scott usually had to force Malia to go if he could find her), while Stiles either went to the library or straight home to do homework, cook dinner, try to get Malia to go home when she would inevitably turn up, and then bed.

If he was very, very lucky Malia would go back to her house, but more often than not she’d ignore his increasingly desperate pleas and slid into his bed. If he was a little lucky she’d go to sleep. If he was unlucky she’d slip her hands under his shirt, running clawed fingers up his chest, before she took what she wanted.

Then the day would repeat, with Stiles feeling like there was a little more distance between himself and his father and friends as Malia wrapped herself a little tighter around his life.

Stiles’ relationship with Scott was suffering the worst out of all of them.

Isaac, apart from with Scott, had reverted to a bastard mix of how he was before the bite and how he was just after it – a miasma of flinching evasion, and smirking, hostile jokes that led to Stiles avoiding him like the plague.

Lydia had marched up to Stiles on their first day back after the tragedy, slapping him once then hugging him tightly and telling him in a choked voice that she couldn’t lose her other best friend too. At one point the idea of being Lydia’s best anything would have had him bouncing on the rooftops, but now all he felt like was a fraud as he edged between constantly trying to judge Lydia’s mood so he could give her the support she needed and wanting to run for the hills every time she smiled at him. As time wore on running from her became the more popular option until that was all he felt like he was doing whenever he spotted her.

Kira was sweet, but they didn’t know each other so there wasn’t anything to lose, and he and Danny had never really had much of a relationship beyond sarcasm and schoolwork even though they’d known each other since kindergarten, so nothing was said by either of them as the conversations between them faded to non-existent.

But Scott… Scott seemed to revolve between two extremes when it came to Stiles now: he would either be almost frantic at the idea of letting Stiles out of his sight, would be very tactile and text him every half hour whenever they didn’t have a class together; or he wouldn’t even be able to look at Stiles. It didn’t really matter to Stiles because they were both equally exhausting, and besides pack related business Scott didn’t, couldn’t, see him outside of school for the moment. The latter was definitely starting to trump the former but Stiles never pushed him about it, too pathetically grateful that Scott hadn’t completely cut him out of his life.

He couldn’t help wondering though, in the dead of night when Malia had him so pinned that he couldn’t wriggle out of her grip, why on the increasingly rare days when Scott was all over him why he never picked up on how uncomfortable Stiles was around Malia.

When Stiles did manage to get away he would go back to the Hale house.

There was no pattern to his returns, but every time Derek would be waiting for him.

At first they barely spoke, but then one evening a couple of weeks or so after Derek had first caught him Stiles was having a particularly bad night and had decided simply not to sleep. He’d ended up going out to his car and digging the battered notepad he always kept in the glove compartment out before returning to the small room where Derek looked at it curiously.

“I earn a bit of money by selling papers to college students,” Stiles wasn’t sure why he was telling Derek, but once he’d started he found he couldn’t stop. “I come up with subjects that interest me and usually jot them down in here, then if I think they’ll be any good or if there’s a call for that topic I’ll research it further.”

He flapped the notepad towards Derek as he talked and almost bit his tongue in surprise when Derek leaned forward a little and smoothly hooked the book out of his hand.

Stiles sputtered and flailed as Derek flipped through the pages slowly, before stopping on one and an actual swear-to-god look of interest passed over his face.

“The Munsee Delaware Tribe, I did my thesis on them,” Derek said, eyes a little distant. “They were frequently called the Wolf Tribe of the Lenape. I drove Laura mad with all the books I left lying around the apartment, and I’d be constantly going to visit what remained of them in Ontario and Wisconsin.”

Stiles had a strange moment of his brain trying to convince him he’d somehow ended up in a parallel universe, because there was no way Derek was willingly volunteering information about himself, about Laura, without it being a life-of-death situation. But Derek continued to speak, his soft voice a little halting at first, but then rising to fill the small room as he talked about a very impressive debate he’d had with one of his professors on a about the similarities between the Munsee and the New England Algonkians. Stiles couldn’t help but ask a question pertaining to it and Derek didn’t even pause in his reply.

The rest of the night continued like that, with Derek mainly talking about what he’d studied in fascinating depth, but every now and again glimpses of his old life outside of his course slipped in.

By the time the sun had started to lighten the sky Stiles knew that Laura had been a terrible morning person – the sort that you usually only find in fiction – and had once put one of Derek’s library books on the stove in place of a frying pan. Derek had managed to get to it in time to avoid the burner, but there’d been oil and raw egg all over it.

It had been an awe-inspiring thing to experience Stiles thought as he slowly drove home, to see Derek’s shields come down even just a little. Was that a glimpse of what he’d been like before the fire? All dry humour, fierce intelligence, and a deep love for his family. Stiles felt privileged that Derek had felt comfortable enough to do that in front of him, although he didn’t know what that said about their relationship. Would Derek be like that again or had it just been a one-time thing? Stiles’ heart clenched at the thought of never having a repeated experience like that with the older man. Derek, probably more than anyone Stiles knew, deserved to be light-hearted more.

Stiles gave a little groan and tugged a hand roughly through his hair in an effort to wake himself up. He was too tired to be trying to work out the multi-faceted depths of Derek Hale’s personality. Who knew that the man’s emotions went beyond gut wrenching anger and heart breaking betrayal?

He couldn’t deny that his wish for Derek to continue to open up was partially selfish; while Scott wasn’t stupid, and neither was Isaac or Kira, no one else really could match Stiles’ intelligence except Lydia. There was, of course Peter, but Stiles would rather not go there. At all. So, he’d been unable to withhold his excitement as Derek had not only kept up with him during their conversation last night, but that he’d left him stumped several time. Stiles still couldn’t help his all-consuming guilt when around Lydia now, so they’d not had a debate or an in-depth talk about anything really for a long while yet apparently Stiles’ intellect was panting after something of that ilk.

As Stiles drew up onto the drive and saw a very irritated Malia waiting for him in the dawn light he was reminded as to why he didn’t deserve Derek, or Lydia, interacting with him like that.

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” Malia snapped, eyes flashing and claws already out as Stiles slowly climbed from the jeep. “This is too early for humans to go out to ‘clear their head’. You’ve been lying to me.”

Stiles tried to hide the flinch as she swung her hand out suddenly towards him, but then realised she was gesturing for an explanation.

“I haven’t been lying to you, Malia,” not completely. “I’ve been having really bad nightmares since… since the whole Nogitsune thing and sometimes I just need to get out of the house when they wake me up.”

Thankfully Malia’s eyes shimmered back to their usual colour and her claws retract.

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”

She gave him what was probably meant to be a playful punch on the arm, but he knew he’d have a nasty bruise there and struggled not to curl in on it a little, before she strode past him.

“Er, where are you going?” Stiles couldn’t help calling, more than a little confused as she usually used weekends as an excuse to lie in, and she smirked back at him over her shoulder.

“I’ve not gone for a run for a few days, so I’m going to hunt myself some breakfast.”

It wasn’t in him to tell her that there was plenty of food in the house. Her going hunting meant she’s be gone for a while, and that for the first time in more than a week he’d have his room to himself.

As he lifted a hand to wave her off a little voice in the back of his mind hissed that he hoped she wouldn’t come back.

When he stumbled into the house though he found he couldn’t bring himself to go any further than his bedroom doorway. The bed covers had been thrown back so hard they were half trailing across the floor, Malia’s clothes were dotted about everywhere, and the room smelled strongly of her.

Turning, Stiles went back downstairs to the living room and curled up on the couch, pulling the throw along the back of it over him.

He was exhausted, but he was also hyperaware of every little noise that could indicate Malia’s return and at best he managed to doze before Malia really did arrive back, making Stiles’ stomach drop like a rock, prowling into the house with dried blood crusted over her chin, clothes and hands.

“Caught a rabbit,” she announced smugly before heading up to the shower.

If there was one thing Malia was supremely grateful for since turning back into a human it was showers, the hotter the better.

Stiles remained frozen on the couch, feeling more than a little lost, until Malia came back downstairs in clean clothes with her hair loose to naturally dry.

“I think you should spend the weekend with your dad.”

Stiles almost looked around for the culprit before realising that his mouth had taken his life in its hands again and had actually dared to say that.

“Why?” Malia prodded as she threw herself down next to him and leaned in to scent his neck. Stiles fought not to pull away, because if he did she would either see it as a game or a challenge, both of which would lead to even more trouble for him.

“Malia, you haven’t seen your dad in over a week. Does he even know where you are?”

Malia pulled back and sent him a flat look.

“I already told you what my dad thought of me. I’m better off here.”

She leaned towards him again, but he stood, both to escape and to further express his exasperation.

“Are you though? Malia, you’re still underage. If your dad thinks he might be at risk of losing you again he could send you anywhere if he thinks you’ll be safer, like back to Eichen House or out of the state. Believe me; you should have seen your dad before you came back. Even if he doesn’t know how to ‘fix’ you in his eyes he will still do whatever he can to keep you safe.”

“But I don’t need to be safe. He can’t protect me, he’s just a human,” Malia snapped as she leant back, crossing her arms in annoyance.

“Really, Malia? And am I ‘just a human’ too?”

It was a little cruel, but she’d made it perfectly clear right from the get go in their ‘relationship’ that she considered him _less_ than her, even if she wasn’t consciously aware of it. But, by the expression on her face maybe she was.

“I didn’t mean…” she trailed off, annoyance draining out of her and she started to pick at the throw beneath her as she refused to meet his eyes, for a moment looking very young and lost. With a sigh he crouched in front of her, feeling that somewhat familiar flare of pity for her.

“Go home, Malia. Give your dad some piece of mind, and hey, you can show him what you’ve learned since you last saw him. I’m sure that’ll cheer him up. I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

It worked, although Stiles could scarcely believe it, and a few minutes later Malia was shouldering her backpack and heading out of the door. Suddenly Stiles had two whole days that would be Malia free and he had to sit down because he was light headed in relief.

There was still an itch that was scratching at the back of his mind though, telling him that something wasn’t quite right.

Stiles scrubbed a hand hard over his face as he tried to figure out what it was. He was so worn down though, so damn tired that all he wanted was to curl up into a ball and never wake up. He was weary down to his very bones; everything ached all of the time and mentally he was just done. It was taking everything he had just to get up every morning and remember to breathe through the day. He had to keep going though, his dad would-

Stiles’ head jerked up to look at the clock on the far wall, then he forced himself to his feet and over to the window to look out at the driveway. His jeep was there, his dad’s cruiser however wasn’t and he should have been home over an hour ago. How had he not noticed?

In a daze Stiles went into the kitchen and got out the camomile tea and his dad’s favourite cup before digging into his pocket for his phone. It wasn’t unheard of for his dad to stay on for a while after finishing a night shift but he usually sent him a text to let him know.

There were no messages on his phone.

As he was trying to get his head clear enough to compose an understandable text there was the sound of the cruiser pulling up onto the driveway. With a relieved sigh Stiles put his phone back in his pocket and switched the kettle on, before realising he hadn’t put any water in it and hurriedly switching it back off again.

His dad opened the front door as Stiles was filling the kettle, but he didn’t call out to him as usual, nor did he wander into the kitchen. Instead Stiles heard a sound he had hardwired into his system to be hyperaware of: the sound of the cabinets door that contained random items, board games, and most importantly his dad’s liquor, being pulled open. Glasses were kept on the top of it and there was a slight scrape of glass being dragged over the wood surface next, then a chair being pulled out at the table and the hard _thunk_ of the bottle being set down.

That same heavy, tired dread that had always filled him after Stiles had realised that the drinking his dad was doing after his mother’s death was a very dangerous thing settled into his chest and dragged his limbs down. His steps were slow as he set the kettle down and moved over to the open doorway and he could hear with a crisp clarity his dad opening the bottle, then the chink of glass on glass and the glug of liquid.

He reached the doorway in time to watch his father take the first sip of that amber liquid that Stiles had been told was the same colour as his eyes and hated so much.

The Sheriff was sitting in his usual seat, but he was slumped over in the way he only ever did when the situation was bad enough for him to need a drink.

“Dad,” Stiles called softly and it was a long moment before his dad looked up at him.

The expression on his face was one that Stiles had never seen before this past year: it was one of desperation, but not the type of desperation the Sheriff had worn when he was begging his wife not to die; it was the type of desperation where he was begging himself not to believe that his son had betrayed him.

Stiles had hoped that with the whole big secret coming out into the open that he’d never have to see that look on his dad’s face again - the weight of it was too much for Stiles to bear, yet here it was rooting him to the spot again.

The Sheriff dropped his eyes, as though looking at his son physically pained him, and he took a long pull of his drink. Almost casually he reached for the bottle and began to fiddle with the label.

“Where’s Malia?” he asked in a faux casual tone of voice.

“At her dad’s,” Stiles managed to respond, even though he felt as though he might choke on the words.

There was a long pause in which Stiles’ father took another drink.

“You know,” the Sheriff continued as he put the glass down, his voice grating roughly. “Last night I finally managed to get rid of the last of the evidence implicating you to the bomb attack and the massacre at the hospital, as well as a few other things.”

He might as well have hit Stiles, because he sure as hell felt like he had been.

Stiles rocked back a little before he reached out one trembling hand to grasp the doorjamb to keep him upright while he started counting his fingers on the other. How far gone was he that he hadn’t even considered for a second that there would be _mountains_ of evidence against him? The Nogitsune hadn’t exactly taken great care to clear up after itself since that would have gone against what it was trying to achieve; after all the whole point had been that they _knew_ it was ‘Stiles’ doing all those terrible things.

“Dad, I-” Stiles started to quaver out, and when had all the air left the room?

His dad’s raised hand halted him, but still the Sheriff refused to look at him.

“I know, I just… Stiles, evidence tampering is serious. I never in all my life thought that it would be something I’d have to end up doing to protect my own son. Dammit, everything used to be so simple and now in the eyes of the law I’m a dirty cop. If they catch me I can’t exactly say to them ‘it’s okay; I’m only did it because my kid was damn well _possessed_ at the time!’” his voice had risen to a shout by the end and Stiles cringed away instinctively, but his dad took a deep breath, had another sip of his drink and continued in a much calmer tone.

“I know, _I know_ none of this is your fault, Stiles, but I just had to ‘lose’ fingerprint analysis, destroy physical evidence, and wipe CCTV footage of a monster wearing my son’s face posting a bomb that I know killed two of my officers, both of whom had families, and landed half a dozen more in the hospital. Then I had to wipe the footage of ‘you’ wandering into that hospital to butcher some damn fine men and women, many of them with families too. So I need you to forgive me for the moment because I just can’t look at you right now.”

The noise that Stiles let out at that was something he was ashamed of and startled him in how broken and animalistic it sounded. His dad’s hand that had been playing with the bottle jerked towards him as though he wanted to comfort him, but his face remained steadfastly turned away.

“It’s - it’s just for a bit, I promise kid. I’ll be back to normal in no time, but it’s just a bit too much for your old man right now.”

Then the Sheriff was standing, one hand clasping the glass and the other the bottle, and he was walking past Stiles as though he wasn’t even there, heading for the stairs.

Stiles listened to him climb them, then the creaking as he moved down the landing and the soft click of his bedroom door closing. It might not have hurt so much if he’d slammed it.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Stiles put the camomile tea away, before he headed out of the house and got into the jeep.

He didn’t remember the drive, only a vague recollection of the road blurring in front of him as he wiped away tears repeatedly, but he was back at the Hale house.

It looked different in the day, smaller, and Derek was conspicuously absent. Stiles however was glad for once that Derek wasn’t there because if he had been Stiles wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from breaking down and pouring everything out.

Stiles didn’t go into the house, just sat on the steps for hours as his mind jumped back and forth between the Nogitsune’s original memories, memories from the time of his possession, and then further back in his life, going over failure after failure.

He spent the entire day there, tearing off little pieces of his soul one scrap at a time, but headed back home before night fell and Derek could turn up.

His dad’s door was still closed and Stiles headed straight into his room, stripping the covers off his bed and then dragging them over to his closet.

Once in there he managed to pull the door closed and wrap them around him so they blocked out all light.

As he was drifting off, his ribs and back already starting to protest, Stiles’ traitorous thoughts reminded him that his dad had a shift tomorrow and that he knew the combination to the gun safe hidden in his dad’s room.

A thick desperation rose in Stiles’ throat as he resolutely pushed the thought back down and he couldn’t help the wretched sobs that forced their ways past his lips.

Stiles had never been much of a stranger with the wish to die: he’d first experienced it as he’d sat in a cold hospital room, holding his mother’s equally cold hand as she’d breathed her last breath. It had reared its head from time to time over the years, often around his mom’s anniversary, whispering sweetly of oblivion; but it had become much more persistent over the past year and almost a daily reminder over the past couple of months. Each time though he’d not let the thought linger, never felt the lure of it beyond a murmur, because he’d told himself that there was one person in the world who would struggle to go on without him. The thought of leaving his dad had had him turning away from the temptation, but now he couldn’t deny it any more - his dad’s life would be easier without him in it. And so he didn’t dare let that thought stay, because he knew, as he wound himself into a tighter ball and tried to cry the devastation out of him, that if he had a gun in front of him right now he might not have the strength not to pick it up, put it in his mouth and pull the trigger.

xXx

His dad continued to avoid him for the rest of the week, so Stiles was sneaking out to the Hale house almost every night, more out of a desperation for Derek to ground him and keep him from doing anything stupid than out of a need to escape from Malia. He seemed to be becoming increasingly numb to her, and every time she’d tried to have sex with him during the week he had remained limp, much to her outrage.

So he would go to the Hale house and then he would be pulled from his nightmares by a large, gentle hand. Derek never mentioned it and Stiles didn’t either, at a loss on how to explain to someone who was so terrified of relationships and trust that the only thing that was really keeping him going right now was that hand, as it pieced his patchwork soul gradually back together.

However, when Stiles headed to the Hale house that Friday night, clouds hung heavy in the sky, swollen and if it had been day the purple with the weight of the rain in them would have matched the bruises that decorated Stiles’ body. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

It had been a conflicting day for him.

His dad had almost reduced him to tears in the morning by pulling him into a gentle hug and smiling at him before he’d headed out of the door for work.

Stiles had all but floated to school only to be dragged back down again by the second lesson when Malia had thrown her book across the room and tried to punch the teacher. If Scott and Isaac hadn’t been there to hold her back… Given her special circumstances (and the fact that the teacher foolishly didn’t believe that Malia would have been able to actually hurt him,) the teacher had let her off with a month’s worth of lunch time detentions, instead of getting her suspended. He had however also suggested that Malia be moved to the special needs class and the principle had agreed to talk it over with Malia’s dad and her other teachers.

Honestly, it had always puzzled Stiles how Malia had managed to even get into high school in the first place, let alone into the top sets that people like Stiles and Lydia were in.

The simple fact of the matter was that she should not be there.

Her education only extended up to when she was nine, and yet she was suddenly supposed to slide effortlessly into junior year high school work, totally ignoring the gaping _eight year_ education gap. It wasn’t only unfair, it was impossible for her.

Even if she had remained human during that entire time, her brain wouldn’t have grown around the continued influx of book-based knowledge that the rest of them would have experienced; in fact Malia could barely read _at all_. From what Stiles had managed to observe, Malia was actually at a lower level than she had been when she was nine, because she had forgotten almost everything, and yet they were expecting her to wrap her head around things such as trigonometry if she ‘had a little tutoring’ outside of lessons.

Malia not only should not, she _could not_ be in high school. They were setting her up for failure and he thought she knew it too deep down but was too stubborn to say.

Lydia was the only other one besides Stiles who had seemed to realise that too, although for the moment she was keeping silent. From the pursing of her lips though it wouldn’t be long before she felt driven to speak.

Malia had been in a furious mood for the rest of the day and had dragged him everywhere with her, sharp fingers digging deeply into his arm, leaving small, dark bruises.

When, during a free period, he had taken her to a quiet part of the school and then tried to comfort her (as reasoning had failed) she had punched him so hard in the stomach that he had vomited. Then, while he was gagging and gasping on his hand and knees, she had let out a rage-filled snarl and slashed her claws across his back before storming from the room.

The only good thing to take away from the incident (and he _needed_ something good to take away from it) was that his t-shirt had fallen down, almost covering his head when Malia had clawed him, meaning that he’d be able to somewhat hide the wounds until he could take care of them.

He’d stumbled to the office and made apologies about throwing up, citing feeling unwell as the excuse while being careful to keep the rapid darkening of the back of his clothes out of view. The woman working there had been very sympathetic because apparently he looked terrible, promising him that she’d send someone to clean up and asking him if he needed to be sent to the nurse or go straight home.

“Can I go home?” he’d asked, trying not to move too much as every time he did his t-shirt would pull at the wounds and speed up the bleeding again. “I don’t think this is something that’ll be gone before the school day ends.”

He’d tried to look as pathetic as possible and he must have managed it because she’d practically melted and sent him on his way, promising to let his teachers know.

Driving home without letting his back touch the seat had been an impressive feat, especially since scrunching in on his stomach only made it ache worse.

He’d shot off a text to Scott when he’d got back home about being sick, but it was one of the days that Scott found hard to be around him so it shouldn’t be a problem.

Getting his clothes off (as they all had blood on them, even his jeans,) when he couldn’t really twist or bend had been a challenge, but he’d managed it with a strange wiggling dance that had him almost falling into the bath.

Then had come the really hard part: assessing the damage.

He’d had to balance on the toilet to be able to get a clear enough view in the mirror, but when he saw his back he’d let out a hysterical little laugh that had caught in the beginnings of a sob at the end.

His back was a mess of dried blood that was centred around four fairly wide wounds over the lower part of his ribs on his right side. The longest had to be around five inches long, the shortest between two and three inches. They were all roughly the same width, approximately half an inch.

Outside of the blood loss and risk of infection they were fairly superficial, not really going deep enough to do too much damage (he hoped,) but they still should get medical treatment. However, if he went to the hospital while they’d be able to stitch them and so the scarring wouldn’t be too bad, he still couldn’t go – it would raise too many questions - and without proper treatment they were going to heal ugly, he could just tell.

He’d managed to get himself in the shower and under the hot spray, ignoring how the wounds stung and the red swirls around his feet, before the panic attack had hit him.

He couldn’t say how long he was in there, but when he’d come back to himself he’d been slumped on the floor of the tub, leaning his side against the porcelain as he’d shivered under the now-cold water battering him.

It had taken an immense effort to switch the water off and to pull himself out of the tub, and he had then remained slumped on the floor as the towel had grown pink under him for almost half an hour before he could summon the energy to stand.

In the end he’d had to grab a spatula from the kitchen to get some antibacterial ointment into the wounds before he’d clumsily wound bandages around his ribs, flinching every time he had to pull them tight.

Malia hadn’t returned to the house, obviously still too furious to want to be around him, and so Stiles had downed three aspirin, started cooking and tried to enjoy an almost normal evening with his dad.

John talked a little haltingly to him and every now and again would trail off, staring across the table at Stiles as though he’d seen a ghost, but then Stiles would say something and it would break him out of his daze before they’d go back to their very careful conversation.

Afterwards they’d relaxed on the sofa, watching something that neither of them could recall afterwards until the Sheriff announced he was going to bed. He’d given Stiles another hug, which Stiles was ridiculously grateful for, even as horrible streaks of pain had flashed up his spine from where his dad’s arm was pushing down on some of the wounds.

He’d waited only long enough to ensure that his dad was asleep, popped a couple more aspirin and pocketed the bottle, before he was heading out of the door.

Now fat drops were starting to fall just as Stiles was pulling up to the ruin of the Hale house, but before he could move the passenger side door was being yanked open and Derek was jumping in.

“Dude! What the hell?”

Derek sent him a baleful glare, the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes and hair sparkling in the dim light enhancing his already preternatural good looks to the point that Stiles wanted to tell him to go and be a broody supermodel somewhere else.

“This storm is going to be bad and the house isn’t secure. It could collapse, so you’re not staying there tonight.”

Stiles opened and closed his mouth for a few moments as the deluge grew outside.

“Well what else can I do? I’m not going back home!”

Just because Malia hadn’t been there when he’d left, didn’t mean she wouldn’t sneak in at some time in the night.

Derek resolutely stared forward, and a flash of lightning illuminated his striking profile in all its glory for Stiles.

“I know. That’s why we’re going to my loft.”

“Your loft?”

“Did I stutter, Stiles?”

There was a hint of a snarl to the words and Stiles raised his hands defensively before starting the car.

“Okay, okay. Put the fangs away, sourwolf. To the loft it is.”

There was silence apart from the engine and the sound of the rain on the roof for a while.

“You know I hate it when you call me that.”

Stiles took a turn before sending the glowering man beside him a shit-eating smirk.

“Which is exactly why I call you it, Der-bear.”

Derek let out a rumbling growl, glaring out of the window at the empty road.

“You can have sourwolf if you never call me Der-bear again.”

“But they’re both pretty awesome, what’s to stop me calling you both?”

“Does my teeth and your throat ring a bell?”

“Ah, noted. Sourwolf it is.”

A few minutes later they were pulling into the parking lot behind Derek’s building.

The rain was still coming down in sheets, and the flashes of lightning along with the deep, canon-punches of thunder were almost on top of them, so they jumped from the car quickly.

Unfortunately Stiles had momentarily forgotten in the slight haze of painkillers and banter about his wounds, and the twisting motion he made as he jumped out more than painfully reminded him. He couldn’t contain the sharp cry, but at the same moment thunder boomed through the air, hopefully covering the noise even from Derek’s sharp ears; Derek who was already over at the large door, holding it open and guesting impatiently for him.

As Stiles jogged over he was pretty sure the wounds had started bleeding again and his only hope was that the rain was covering the smell. He was just grateful that he’d thought to put a small medical kit in his backpack a few weeks ago so he could take care of any wounds Malia inflicted on him while at school without having to sneak into the nurse’s office to steal supplies.

The loft was as cold as ever, not that any of the werewolves had ever noticed, and Derek disappeared for a few moments before returning with a towel that he threw at Stiles’ face. Stiles flailed, managed to grab it before it fell, blushed at the incredulous expression on Derek’s face and muttered that he was going to use Derek’s bathroom.

Once safely behind the locked door, Stiles peeled off his hoodie and drenched t-shirt. The bandages were wet underneath from the rain, but when Stiles twisted in the mirror he saw blossoms of red decorating them across his back and sighed.

It turned out it was just as difficult to change them as it had been to put them on in the first place and this time Stiles had no way of putting on any ointment.

There was a knock on the door just as Stiles was starting to wipe the rest of himself down in a fruitless effort to warm himself up (he could never seem to get warm these days) and it startled him badly, causing him to stumble backwards and trip over his bag. He caught himself on the sink, but it still wrenched the wounds in a way that had him clenching his teeth and praying to anything and everything that they wouldn’t start bleeding again when Derek was _right on the other side of the door_.

“Stiles?” Derek’s slightly muffled voice called. “I brought you some spare clothes to change into. I’ll just leave them outside of the door, okay?”

Stiles managed to unclench his jaw enough to call an uneven “okay!” back. Then he counted to fifty before he tiptoed over to the door, unlocked it and cautiously pulled it open a crack. There was no glowering werewolf on the other side, just a pile of worn but clean looking clothes resting in a neat pile on the floor. Stiles eagerly grabbed them and barely remembered to lock the door again, so eager was he to get into something dry.

The henley was quite a bit bigger on him than he’d expected. He assumed the clothes were Derek’s and while Derek was a couple of inches taller than him, besides when he’d been all jacked up on alpha juice he’d not thought that the guys shoulders at least were that much bigger than his own.

Stiles had been aware vaguely that he’s lost a bit of weight, but it couldn’t have been that much could it? There were no scales in the bathroom so he had no way of knowing right now. It was best to just put it from his mind for the time being.

Still though, Stiles couldn’t overlook the fact that if the soft sweats Derek had given him didn’t have a drawstring waist then they wouldn’t have stayed up.

Unsettled by the fact that he hadn’t noticed how much his own body had apparently changed in such a short length of time, Stiles shuffled back into the main room, head down and shoulders tensed, convinced that Derek would just take one look at him and call him on… everything.

When there was no immediate shout, Stiles looked up to find that the older man wasn’t even in the room and found himself feeling a bastard mix of relief and disappointment.

“Took you long enough.”

Stiles didn’t yelp, or squeak, or whatever high pitched noise that didn’t come out of his mouth. No way. Stiles would deny that a sound like that could come out of him to his last breath.

He looked up and glowered at Derek, who was all but hanging over the railing above the spiral staircase and smirking complacently.

“Yeah, well we don’t all have your werewolfy freak-speed,” Stiles snapped, clutching his backpack a little closer in which the incriminating bloody bandages were buried, wrapped tightly in a plastic bag.

“C’mon, I was just putting a fresh sheet on the bed.”

“Wha- bed?” Stiles called as Derek disappeared back behind the railings again leaving Stiles to scramble up the staircase after him.

Stiles knew that the first door at the top of the stairs led to a set of further stairs that led up onto the rooftop. Derek had made it explicitly clear what would happen though if Stiles went wandering any further past that.

Derek was leaning against the furthest of the three doors further along, looking for all the world as though he was in the middle of a Vogue photo-shoot.

Stiles gestured emphatically over the railing, down towards the main room.

“I thought that was the bed. You have more?”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Stiles, I have more than one bed. Where do you think Isaac stayed? That one in the main room is for when I need to keep an eye on the door. My real bedroom is up here along with the spare room.”

Apparently finished he opened the door and marched in.

The room was large and furnished only with a simple double bed, bedside table complete with sorry looking lamp, and a chest of drawers on the far wall that looked as though they were one good jolt away from falling apart. The wall opposite to the bed had large windows taking up most of it, showing the scattered orange gleam of streetlamps reflecting in the raindrops running down the glass.

“It’s so… homely,” Stiles couldn’t help saying and he was rewarded with a growl.

“You don’t like it you’re more than welcome to go home,” Derek snapped and Stiles raised his hands in a placating gesture quickly.

“No, no. This is fine, dude. You know I have no filter.”

Derek glowered for a while before sighing.

“Next door is a bathroom, and the room after that is mine. Do _not_ go in there. Good night,” and with that he strode from the room.

The bed was lower and a little firmer than what he was used to, but Stiles found it a great improvement from sleeping on a hard floor in a sleeping bag and he ensured to roll onto his side, so no blood might get on the sheets, then drifted off to the sound of the rain.

There was no soothing hand to pull him from his nightmares that night.


	4. As Wind in Dry Grass

A few days later Stiles had to give in and set off in his jeep to go and see Deaton.

The wounds had been more than a little difficult to look after and they had started feeling hot a couple of days ago. When he’d next changed the bandages and had almost broken his neck getting a look at them they had looked decidedly red, inflamed around the edges and were weeping clear liquid continuously. Then he’d started to feel slightly nauseous and feverish. Not good signs and Stiles was getting genuinely scared.

The crux had come that morning when Malia (who had turned up the afternoon after Stiles’ stay at Derek’s,) had wrinkled her nose and told him he didn’t smell good.

“Like some of the animals in the Preserve who had been wounded. They never lasted long and were bad to eat,” she’d said before stating she didn’t want to be around him when he smelled like that.

So now Stiles was skipping school (god forbid one of the werewolves who could put two and two together smell him,) and heading to the vet’s because he didn’t know where else he could go.

Thankfully his dad had had the early morning shift, so he’d already left by the time Stiles usually got up.

Malia also had vanished in her own time and said nothing about the fact that Stiles couldn’t even bring himself to get out of bed.

It had then taken him the entire morning to summon up the courage and energy to head to Deaton’s, talking himself out of it several times and trying to take care of the wounds on his own again. It had only taken him one look for his pride to crumple and for him to drag himself out of the door, although he had sat in his jeep in front of the vet's for almost an hour before he'd managed to make himself get out.

It was a haunting experience walking back in there and hearing the ghost of Scott’s gasps and pleas, but it helped that it was the middle of a sunny day and after a long, uneasy moment Scott’s whimpers faded back into memory. He didn’t think he’d have been able to walk in if it had been raining.

The practice was thankfully empty, with only Deaton standing behind the counter going over his appointment book. He looked up and for a split second his usually zen-like expression faltered before a genteel smile was sent his way.

“Mr Stilinski, this is a surprise.”

Stiles suddenly felt deeply ashamed for coming and shifted nervously from side to side, wanting nothing more than to turn around a flee. But this wasn’t a problem he could deal with on his own anymore and there was no one else to go to.

“Stiles?”

Stiles jerked his head up and when had Deaton opened the divider and stepped through, moving to stand in front of him?

“Is there something I can help you with?” the vet continued patiently.

“Y-yeah, I’ve,” Stiles licked his dry lips as his voice caught in his throat. “I’ve got this problem that I need you to look at. I don’t want to worry anyone because it was an accident and they’ve got enough on their plates right now, but I can’t look after it properly because I can’t reach it and I wanted to go to Scott, but that was a bad idea, so all I could think of was coming here-” he was babbling, Deaton’s eyes were starting to look a little glazed, and with great difficulty he forced himself to come to a stop.

“Perhaps we’d better go into the back,” was all Deaton said as he gestured Stiles forward.

Once they were safely behind the closed door Stiles thought it best to just get it over with and show Deaton rather than being consumed by nervous word-vomit again and unzipped his hoody. Underneath instead of the usual plaid over a t-shirt was just a buttoned up shirt. The wounds had started to pull too much for him to be able to put a top over his head anymore and even the shifting he had to do to unbutton and pull off the shirt caused him to wince.

Deaton’s eyes narrowed in on the bandages sloppily tied around his ribs. Stiles had done them so badly that morning, limbs feeling like noodles from a fever that had since broken, that all he had to do was pull on the tucked away end for the whole thing to sag down around his waist apart from the places where it had stuck to his damp wounds. Even Stiles, human though he was, could pick up a slight sour smell from them now.

When he turned around to ask Deaton to help him get the bandages unstuck he had not been expecting the surprised hiss from the man.

“What on-” Deaton said, stepping forward sharply.

“Can you give me a hand here before you start with the twenty questions,” Stiles interrupted tiredly; too exhausted to be surprised by Deaton dropping his usually calm mask.

Careful hands started tugging at the fabric, peeling it away from the gashes a centimetre at a time before they finally fell away, leaving the wounds displayed in all their ugly glory.

Fortunately for Stiles, Deaton went into professional mode and obviously decided to take care of the wounds before grilling him over how he’d got them.

“I’m afraid the wounds are too old for me to stitch them now, but after I have cleaned them I might be able to put a few butterfly stitches on them so they won’t heal quite so wide,” Deaton said calmly as he moved about the room, taking items from shelves and pulling implements from drawers.

He had Stiles hop up onto the cold metal table and then turned on the light stationed over it after placing everything he had gathered beside Stiles.

“This will more than likely hurt quite significantly,” was the only warning Stiles got before liquid fire was being poured into the wounds, causing him to arch instinctively away and swear. A surprisingly strong hand clamped down on his hip, holding him in place, as the teeth-achingly sharp pain moved from one gash to the next. By the time Deaton had finished, Stiles felt more than a little light headed and wondering dimly if Deaton could think any less of him if he face-planted on the floor.

Said vet’s thrice-damned face appeared in his spotty vision as hands steadied him.

“Let’s take a minute to give you a chance to recuperate, Stiles. I apologise, that must have been an unpleasant experience for you, but it had to be done with an infection that far along. You should have come to me much sooner.”

Stiles could only hang his head, too ashamed to look Deaton in the eye.

“I know,” was all he could say.

When Deaton judged him recovered enough to continue, Stiles resolutely fixed his eyes on the far wall and was determined not to flinch again on something he’d so stupidly brought on himself.

Something a little less painful than the liquid fire, but still sharp enough to make Stiles bite down on his lip hard, was applied and then there was a slight tugging sensation as Deaton applied the butterfly stitches. The vet then bandaged Stiles’ ribs again in a clean dressing, doing a far better job than Stiles had managed.

Once finished, Deaton disappeared further into the clinic after disposing of the dirty bandages, then returned a short while after with a glass of water in one hand and a small bottle that rattled as he passed it to Stiles.

“These antibiotics are safe for human consumption. You are to take one with food two times a day every day until the bottle is empty. You are to also come and see me every day so I can keep track of how the wounds are healing.”

Deaton then held out the glass of water.

“Take the first one now; I have some fruit you can have.”

Stiles wordlessly clasped the glass and then set it down beside him to open the pill bottle while Deaton went into the back yet again.

The man returned just as Stiles was downing the tablet and held out a banana which Stiles took with a murmur of thanks.

“I’d like to check a couple of other things with you as well as getting some understanding of how you came to have those wounds, Stiles, if that’s okay with you.”

Stiles was rather preoccupied with trying to force himself to swallow the bite of banana he had in his mouth while his stomach was revolting at the idea, but he managed a shaky nod.

“Excellent, now who inflicted those wounds on you and why?” Deaton’s voice was as sharp as a razor. “If it had been a random supernatural creature who just attacked you, you wouldn’t have hidden them to the point of them getting this bad and putting yourself at risk of blood poisoning; so I can only assume that it was one of the pack, which leads me to the ‘why?’”

Stiles managed to force the banana piece down and took another sip of water to try to hide his shaking before answering.

“It was an accident, I promise. Everyone’s struggling right now and they didn’t even realise they’d done it, so I thought it would be better just to keep it quiet,” Stiles managed to dredge up a little resolution from who knew where and met Deaton’s eyes as fiercely as he could. “And since it was an accident I’m not going to tell you who it was. I won’t.”

Deaton merely looked at him for a while before giving that infuriating ambiguous smile.

“Noble intentions, Mr Stilinski, but not, I fear, given to the right person.”

Crap, he already knew who it was. Even though Deaton hadn’t seen him and Malia together, Scott would have been keeping him up to date with everything and the vet would have been smart and removed enough to put the pieces together and draw the logical conclusion after seeing the gashes.

Stiles clamped his hands down on the edge of the metal table as he felt the stirrings of a panic attack twist threateningly through his chest.

“I still maintain that it was an accident,” he replied stubbornly and Deaton dipped his head in acquiescence, probably knowing that it would be a useless endeavour to try to get anything more out of Stiles for the moment.

“Can I put my shirt back on now?” Stiles asked hopefully, trying to supress a full body shiver. He was always cold now, but the examination room had always been particularly cool even when he’d been at full health.

Deaton’s mouth twisted sympathetically for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m afraid not. I still need to do a couple of more checks on you to help with my assessment of your injuries.”

Those checks turned out to be a very through (seriously, Stiles might not be able to ever look at Deaton without blushing again,) all over examination, in which Deaton wrote down every still healing cut or bruise he found along with some of the newer scars. Stiles had weakly tried to pass off the first few as him just being clumsy but Deaton had sent him a look so unimpressed that Stiles’ mouth had clicked shut before he’d even realised.

The thick scar the Nogitsune had given him across his stomach still wasn’t fully healed even though Stiles knew it should have been by now and Deaton had spent a long time prodding and poking it before he was satisfied, scribbling away in his notebook for quite some time.

After that Deaton had made Stiles hop on a set of scales that was built for the larger animals who visited him.

Stiles stared in dull surprise at the numbers before him, trying and failing to work out how he’d managed to lose more than two stone in the last couple of months.

He’d never been the biggest guy, but before Scott had been bitten he’d been somewhere in the low 150’s which his doctor had told his was an ideal weight for a boy his age and height. After Scott had been bitten stress, sleepless nights researching, nightmares, and a general running for his life had quickly dropped the weight to around 147. He hadn’t weighed himself since. Now the numbers 119 blinked reproachfully up at him. He could see his ribs and his hip bones jutted out so sharply they looked un-natural and _he hadn’t noticed_.

Holy shit. Okay, he knew in an absent way and an almost complete avoidance of mirrors because he couldn’t met his own eyes in them (plus there was way too many other things taking up his time and limited energy,) that he’d lost quite a bit of weight, what with the way his clothes now hung off him, but this classed him as pretty severely underweight. No wonder people had been starting to comment: a couple of teachers were beginning to tentatively ask him questions, as though they expected him to shatter apart if they approached him too firmly. Random people who knew he was the Sheriff’s kid that he’d pass on the street or in the supermarket would stare worriedly at him. A sweet old man in the park had asked him if he was okay and needed anyone to talk to.

That now familiar nasty little voice in the back of his head demanded to know why if all these strangers only had to take one look at him to know how bad off he was, why none of his friends or his father had commented?

A hand clamped down on Stiles’ shoulder and he instinctively flinched away, hunching in on himself protectively. It took a moment to remember who is must be and turned sheepishly to meet Deaton’s blank expression.

“That’s all I need from you for now, Stiles. If anything like this happens again in future and you don’t feel you can go to a hospital you are to come straight to me. You can put your shirt back on.”

Stiles felt pathetically grateful as he almost ran to where his shirt lay and pulled it on. He’d felt horribly exposed without something covering him, every bruise and scrape ugly and unmissable under the harsh lighting, showing his shame to anyone who could walk in. His chest loosened a little as he pulled the final button through, and without raising his head he grabbed the pill bottle off the table, ignored the banana he’s only managed to take a solitary a bite of, muttered a thanks and was halfway to the door before Deaton’s voice halted him.

“Stiles, you should talk to Scott about this.”

Stiles bristled but didn’t turn.

“What, you mean if I don’t tell him you will?”

“As a supernatural person from your pack is part of this I cannot directly get involved, but this is a very dangerous path you are going down, and not one you’re likely going down of your own will. If the wounds on your back had been even an inch further to the left they could have severed your spine. You’ve been lucky so far, but in a situation like this luck doesn’t last long. Talk to Scott before something that you can’t come back from happens.”

Stiles realised that his fingers were twitching in a familiar way where they rested against his jeans, unconsciously counting over and over again as Stiles thought of Scott; of how the bags under his eyes had become darker, how Kira was the only one who could really seem to get through to him anymore and bring out a smile, how Scott had been turning his head away from wherever Stiles was sitting or standing and Stiles didn’t think he even realised he was doing it. Telling Scott, who was barely holding himself together, was impossible. This was something Stiles had brought on himself. He deserved it, and he deserved to have to deal with it alone.

“I’ll think about it,” he lied and then hurried out before Deaton could say anything else.

He found himself at a bit of a loss back in the jeep; going to school was out, as was his home. If he went into the middle of town the chance of a deputy or his dad spotting him were high. He could go out to the Hale house again but Derek had sent him a text a day after the storm saying that the house was now too unsafe to go in. Wait, Derek.

Stiles didn’t hesitate in turning on the jeep and then peeling out of the parking lot, heading with unerring certainty to the half abandoned industrial district of the town.

He pulled up in a free car park a couple of blocks from Derek’s building, hiding the jeep behind a large van as he knew that the district was routinely patrolled by the sheriff’s department and most of them knew his memorable car on sight.

The walk to Derek’s gave him a little time to calm the frantic thoughts in his mind before they could build themselves to panic-attack inducing levels. So Deaton knew, so what? He’d just basically said that he wouldn’t tell anyone. But what if he changed his mind? God, what if Scott confronted him over it? What if he didn’t?

His thoughts continued to swirl in ever-darkening spirals as he automatically pulled the key Derek had given him months ago (and only him for some reason,) to open the door. He made his way up the stairs still grappling his feelings and then he was pulling open Derek’s heavy door, which didn’t have a proper lock, just deadbolts, but since the rest of the building was empty it was a moot point.

Derek had obviously been sitting on the couch reading, but now he was putting the book down and making his way over, forehead furrowed into that familiar scowl.

“Stiles, I hear you coming up. What are you doing here?”

And just like that Stiles’ mind calmed.

It was such a shock that Stiles jolted and stumbled, but then there was those large, warm hands, as gentle as ever, catching him and drawing him into the loft at the same time.

“Stiles? What’s wrong? Do I need to call Scott?”

It was said in Derek’s usual way: rather blunt and sharp, demanding he get to the point right away, but the concern layered underneath cracked something in Stiles and suddenly Derek’s face was blurring.

Stiles started to cry; deep, gut-wrenching sobs that he tried to keep silent but shook his whole body as his covered his face with shaking hands in shame.

From what he could make out, Derek seemed to be at a complete loss as to what to do: he yanked his hands away from where he’d been grasping Stiles’ biceps as though he’d been burned, but then almost immediately went to return them before stopping only a few inches away to hover uncertainly. He started to speak several times, only for him to stutter into silence before he’d got more than the first syllable out. If Stiles hadn’t been so far gone he might have found it adorable, but he didn’t because he didn’t deserve Derek worrying over him.

“I’m,” Stiles choked out between sobs. “I’m s-sorry. I’ll go.”

He turned back towards the door only for Derek to find his conviction and reach out to grasp Stiles’ shoulder firmly.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said gruffly as he led Stiles over to the sofa and all but shoved him down on it.

Stiles wretchedly curled in on himself, ignoring the way it stretched the wounds on his back as Derek strode away to shut the door and then vanished through the hole in the wall to where the kitchen was.

Stiles hoped that Derek might be reverting back to his emotion-phobic ways and was leaving him in peace to pull himself together, but then he was back, marching across the floor to him with a single minded purpose.

A bottle of water and a box of tissues were placed on the coffee table in front of Stiles and before he could do anything but blink at them the throw over the back of the sofa was being tugged around his shoulders.

Derek then settled rigidly next to him, as though he wanted to bolt at any moment, and awkwardly reached out to pat Stiles stiffly on the shoulder.

“There, there,” he grated out as though it physically pained him to say the words, staring fixedly ahead of him with wide-eyed terror.

Stiles couldn’t hold in the snort to save his life and managed a shaky grin even though the tears (and more than likely snot) were still running down his face as Derek’s head whipped around to glare at him.

“You totally suck at this,” he croaked. “If I’d’ve known you’d try to be nice to me I’d have cried on you ages ago. S’nice.”

Derek’s shoulders seemed to loosen a little in the face of Stiles’ familiar teasing, but Stiles couldn’t hold the quivering smile and he dissolved into sobs again.

Emboldened by Stiles’ words, Derek drew in closer until he was pressed firmly against Stiles’ arm. Then he slowly, as though Stiles was a wild animal, reached and wrapped his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling the teen even tighter into his side.

Stiles, too consumed by his misery and too tired to resist if he’d wanted to remained pliant in Derek’s grip as he turned him a little more into him. In the end he was fully curled into Derek’s side as the man leant back against the cushions, getting himself comfortable for the long haul.

Derek didn’t say anything more and for that Stiles was grateful, but his thumb started moving in soothing circles against the bone of Stiles’ shoulder.

Neither could have really said how long they stayed like that only that it was long after Stiles’ tears had run dry and he just sagged exhaustedly into Derek’s body. At one point Derek moved, twisting his neck so that his chin was resting on top of Stiles’ head. At another Stiles could swear Derek’s stomach was rumbling but when he sluggishly raised his head Derek’s hand lifted from his shoulder for a moment to push it back down. Sometime after that Stiles hesitantly unclasped his hands from where they were tightly wound around each other, hugged close to his chest, and stretched them out, ending up with one arm loosely wrapped around Derek’s front.

The shadows lengthened and neither spoke or moved; Stiles lightly dozing and Derek staring at the wall, eyes distant.

Eventually, as the last of the natural light faded from the sky and artificial lights started flickering on, Derek patiently nudged Stiles into standing and wordlessly led him up to the bedroom he’d stayed in the last time.

The note that Derek had left Stiles on the door was still in there, on top of the drawers where he’d left it, still proclaiming that he’d rather Stiles came to the loft in future when he needed to ‘go for a midnight wander’ instead of returning to the Hale house.

Maybe the memory of that was what had prompted him to go to the loft in such a weak moment.

“Stiles.”

The voice was soft, and said his name so comfortably that Stiles took a moment to realise that it hadn’t been a figment of his increasingly irrational imagination.

Stiles turned to look at Derek, who was standing in the doorway like he didn’t want to intrude.

“Can you tell me why?”

Why had he come to the loft? Why had he cried? What had devastated him so badly that he’d sought out Derek for comfort? Why he’d let Derek comfort him at all?

Stiles could only shake his head and he almost sagged with relief when Derek didn’t look put out or try to push it. Instead he nodded, tossed the bottle of water that Stiles had never got around to drinking and the tissue box onto the bed, and wished Stiles a goodnight before quietly slipping away, closing the door behind him.

Even though he’d dozed most of the day away, Stiles was so exhausted that he barely had the energy to slip off his shoes and jeans before flumping on the bed and burrowing under the covers.

Sleep was quick in coming and maybe it was because of how tired he was but the nightmares didn’t taunt him that night.

xXx

Scott had bit a fucking kid.

The Sheriff had got it into his head to try to play happy families that Friday evening, ignoring how his and Stiles’ relationship was still on very fragile ground, plus how Malia still barely acknowledged his existence, and had taken them out to dinner.

Stiles had spent most of the meal just prodding his starter around his plate, trying to remember the last time he’d had a full meal or when food had tasted anything other than bland, unable to go along with his dad’s weak attempts at conversation while Malia was increasingly rude to the waiting staff as they ‘didn’t bring her deer meat to her quick enough’. She’d been confused when the Sheriff had tried to explain that it was called venison and had stubbornly kept calling it ‘deer meat’ instead. Stiles didn’t have the energy anymore to try to correct her; who cared if she liked venison? Since humans ate it as well it was socially acceptable for her to enjoy it so he didn’t have to do anything, like suggest she like pizza instead.

The call came just as Malia was getting to the point that she was threatening to go back into the kitchen to make them hurry up and his dad, along with their waiter, was trying to calm her. (She still hadn’t managed to wrap her head around why they needed to _cook_ it.)

The mere fact that this was the first time that Scott had called him out of school for months showed how serious the situation was before Stiles had even answered the phone, heart pounding.

“Scott?”

“Stiles,” Scott’s voice sounded wrecked and Malia quieted, much to the relief of those around her, as she tiled her head unsubtly towards the phone.

“I need-” Scott continued. “Can you just come to the hospital? Is your dad with you? Bring him too or call him if he’s at work, we’re gonna need him.”

The line went dead.

It had taken them twenty minutes to get there instead of the ten it should have taken since their mains had been brought out just as they were standing and then Malia had refused to leave until she got her ‘deer meat’, sending the waiting staff scurrying back to the kitchen to transfer the meals to take out boxes with a snarl. The Sheriff had thought it quickest just to indulge her and Stiles didn’t have the drive anymore to protest.

Thankfully she’d eaten her meal (and then Stiles’) quietly in the car. John had asked Stiles to drive so he could munch down a few bites of his own, guessing that he would probably be too busy for the rest of the evening to work. He was right.

A quick call to Scott again once they were there had led them up to the rooftop, where a worried Melissa was waiting by the door.

“He won’t let me out there,” she said, wringing her hands in frustration. “Just shouts that it’s not safe every time I try to open the door.”

“Okay,” John soothed, rubbing a hand over her shoulder. “Well Scott called us so we should be fine to go out.”

“Be careful,” she called after them as the Sheriff cautiously pushed open the door. Then Malia snorted and shoved past him, ignoring his exacerbated hiss of her name.

The roof was a wreck and from where Stiles stood by the door he could see a decidedly dead body as well as Scott pinning the writhing form of a kid against a large air duct.

At first Stiles thought that he was trying to attack or get away from Scott, but the longer he looked the more he realised the young teen was twisting in pain - his blood soaked sleeve, the dark wound of a bite on the wrist, and Scott’s bloody chin showing why.

“You idiot,” Stiles breathed and Scott’s eyes jerked around to meet him, an exhausted and injured look on his face, eyes all but screaming for help. There was no way Stiles could resist that look from his best friend, even with their relationship crumbling around him and before he knew it he was crouching down on the other side of the kids struggling body. He didn’t try to hold him down since Scott was doing such an admirable job, but also because Stiles now had the physical strength of a kitten.

“Hey, hey,” he called, trying to get the kids attention. Hazy eyes turned to him. “What’s your name?” He could see his dad out of the corner of his eye crouch down by the body.

“Liam,” Scott said. “His name’s Liam. He’s a freshman at our school and did really well at the lacrosse tryouts today.”

Stiles tried not to wince. Scott wasn’t trying to accuse him of quitting, in fact he hadn’t pushed him about it at all, but the gap in Stiles’ knowledge that he would otherwise have if he’d not screwed up so badly rankled at him.

“Right,” Stiles continued, trying to smooth over how much his voice was shaking. “With how long it took us to get here, and I’m guessing you called me pretty much immediately after it happened?” Scott nodded. “Okay, so he was bitten around three quarters of an hour ago then. Did Derek ever mention how long it takes to find out if a body rejects the bite or not?”

“Rejects?” the kid – Liam, croaked, his struggles lessening as the pain seemed to be dying down and his awareness of his surroundings coming back. “What d’you mean ‘rejects’?”

His eyes widened in panic as they flew to Scott and he started struggling in earnest again.

“Does he have something that can be passed on through a bite? Does he have AIDS? Oh god, I have AIDS.”

“No, no, no,” Scott tried to say soothingly. “Nothing like that. You don’t have AIDS, I promise, but… my bite will have changed you.”

“Changed me,” Liam said flatly. Scott nodded so emphatically that it was a wonder his head didn’t fall off.

“How?” the kid demanded, but before either Scott or Stiles could respond, John was crouching down next to them, looking Liam over carefully. His eyes widened when they got to the bite.

“Does this mean-” he started, and Stiles jumped in.

“One way or the other, yes, dad, it does; which means we need to get him out of here before the other cops show up. We don’t know how long it’ll take or what’ll happen really, so it’s best we get him away from everyone for their safety.”

“ _Their_ safety?” Liam squeaked.

John ignored him.

“Do you have somewhere to take him? Somewhere he can be safely contained if need be?”

“Yes,” and Stiles realised as he said it that they did.

“Well you need to get him out of here in the next five minutes then, since that’s when I’ll be calling it in. Scott, I need a quick rundown of what happened, right now, son.”

“Hey, there’s a human pancake in the alley,” Malia called over from where she was standing casually on the very edge of the roof, looking down with vague interest.

John raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at Scott. “Okay, I was here to see mom,” Scott began, attention shifting between John and Stiles. “And I heard Liam mention at practice earlier that his step-dad was a doctor here, so I’m guessing he was here to see him.”

“Wait, when did you hear me say that?” Liam interrupted, his confusion overwhelming his discomfort.

“When you and your friend were putting on you gear,” Scott said distractedly, clearly wanting to get back to the main story. Liam’s brows wrinkled in an incredulous frown.

“Hold up, that’s not possible. I remember you were right on the over side of the pitch with Coach and that curly haired jackass because I asked who the Captain was and someone pointed you out to me.”

“Yeah, and I heard you.”

“But that’s _impossible_.”

“Boys!” John snapped, going into full Sheriff mode, and they fell silent. “You can discuss this later; right now I need to know what happened.”

“Right, right,” Scott scratched uncomfortably at the blood drying on his chin and it was a testament to how messed up their lives were that none of them except Liam gave it a queasy glance.

“So, Liam was here to see his step-dad, and some hunters who didn’t follow the Code must have found and followed me. I didn’t notice anything was wrong until one of them approached me in an empty corridor. They said I’d go along with them or they’d kill this kid they’d just caught. Then the other one turned up with a gun held on Liam.”

Liam took in a great, shuddering breath and Stiles absently reached out and patted him on the head.

“So,” Scott continued. “They took us up here and when the one not holding Liam turned to wedge the door shut I took my chance. They worked well together and managed to keep me from properly hitting one of them. Then when I’d finally got one down and was about to knock him out, the other one called out to me and shoved Liam off the roof.”

Okay, now Liam was close to hyperventilating, obviously reliving the traumatic event all over again.

Stiles, with the help of the other two, sat him up and pushed his head down between his knees.

“Just focus on your breathing and try not to listen,” was all the advice he could give for the moment, and Scott took that as his cue to continue.

“I managed to get to Liam in time to grab him, but then they continued attacking me while I was trying to pull him up. It all happened really fast; I managed to push one away pretty hard, I heard him scream, and then the other one was right behind me, shouting about putting me down while I had almost pulled Liam back over the edge. Then the guy pushed me back down, using all of his body weight so he was, like, pretty much lying on my back, and he had his gun right on the back of my head. Liam slipped out of my grip and I leant out even farther and managed to grab him with my teeth while I reached back with both hands, like this, to knock the gun away. I don’t really know what happened, but then the guy above me’s gun went off, and then the other guy’s gun went off. Then the guy above me just … fell and when I pulled Liam back onto the roof the guy still up here was dead. That’s when I called Stiles.”

Stiles could feel the beginning of a headache coming on and by the looks of it his dad was in the same situation. How things like this managed to keep happening to Scott was beyond him; it was a combination of crazy luck, sheer stubborn-headedness, and a surreal step over into a reality where movie shit like this actually happened.

“So what you’re telling me,” John said slowly. “Is that they killed each other.”

Scott looked as though he was puzzled as to why they’d even doubt him.

“Yeah, that’s what I just told you.”

“Only you, Scott,” John sighed as he pushed himself back to his feet, clapping Scott on the shoulder as he went. “Only you. Now you guys better disappear sharpish. Oh, and send Melissa out.”

Liam seemed too stunned to protest as Scott and Stiles pulled him to his feet, and then it was just a case of Scott (having cleaned the blood off his chin after a sharp reminder from his mom,) leading him down through the hospital with a hand lightly resting on his back. Stiles remained pressed in close to his other side to hide the bloody sleeve while Malia trailed along in apparent disinterest behind. He was hyperaware of her, just waiting for a biting comment or for her to reach out and grab him, but for once she seemed focused on the bigger picture and didn’t bother him.

They all climbed into the jeep, Liam in the back with Malia, while Scott settled in the passenger seat. A though seemed to occur to him and he twisted to look at Stiles.

“Wait, where are we going?”

“I would have thought it would be obvious. Where do we know that’s out of the way enough that no one will notice if things get loud, yet it’s comfy enough for us to stay there for a long while, and also has lost of handy things like sturdy pillars in case we need to chain someone up? Plus it has someone who knows more about this sort of stuff than anyone we know who isn’t a psychopath or won’t just smile mysteriously at us.”

Scott looked blank and Stiles rolled his eyes, experiencing a pale imitation of the fond exasperation he used to feel towards Scott whenever he was being particularly dense.

“Derek’s, Scott. We’re taking him to Derek’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going with the idea here that because Stiles wasn’t with Scott for the tryouts, Scott was a bit more careful and didn’t end up hurting Liam. (That does also mean though that Coach didn’t throw his hissy fit and throw that ball that Kira caught, so Kira’s not on the team - not that Kira would have been there with Malia anyway in this version of events.) Instead Liam went to the hospital to meet his step-dad for family reasons. I’m also of the opinion that due to Scott being more realistically screwed up by Allison’s death that he and Kira didn’t kiss (yet?)


	5. Rats' Feet Over Broken Glass

Derek was understandably pretty unhappy with them turning up un-announced dragging a potential werewolf with them.

He was even less pleased when the second Scott had dropped Liam down on the couch the young alpha pulled his phone out and sent a group text to summon the remainder of the pack.

“How will we know if his body starts to reject the bite?” Scott asked as he paced from the couch to the door and back again.

Liam watched him wide-eyed, too confused and shaken to move, while Derek had gone over to join Stiles by the window, his warm arm pressing again Stiles’.

Malia had sat herself down on the spiral staircase in an eerie facsimile to Peter and hadn’t moved since, eyes focused on Liam as though she was trying to work out if he’d make a nice snack.

“Black blood will start leaking from all of his orifices,” Derek said grimly, pushing a little harder against Stiles as though seeking comfort. “It’ll be hard to miss.”

Liam looked as though he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be sick or bolt.

Isaac was the first to arrive, almost frantic until he saw that everyone was fine. Then he settled against a pillar, eyes continually darting to Liam on the couch but asking nothing yet.

Danny arrived shortly after, sending a wan smile to the tense room before sitting himself down on the other end of the couch, making Liam edge away from him nervously. Danny simply pulled out his phone and didn’t look at him, making Liam un-tense the smallest fraction.

Parrish was next to appear, still in uniform and grumbling blearily about having just finished a fifteen hour shift. He physically pushed Liam into the centre of the couch and then slumped down beside him, the three of them barely managing to fit, and seemed to doze off for a second, head titled up towards the ceiling. Then he frowned while his eyes were still closed, turned his head and cracked open an eye to look at Liam’s owlish face.

“Who’re you?” he slurred, but when he got no answer his eye slid shut again and then he was in danger of falling asleep on Liam’s shoulder. Liam himself had relaxed a little as soon as Parrish had walked in, calmed by the sight of the uniform, but now he was looking more than a little bewildered as Parrish’s head kept dipping closer and closer to him.

Lydia and Kira came in together, Kira explaining that Lydia had been kind enough to pick her up as she moved over to Scott. He grabbed her hand like a drowning man, causing her to frown in worry and draw him closer.

Lydia’s eyes imperiously swept the room and then she demanded something to sit on. Derek let out a quiet sigh that Stiles more felt than heard and then Derek, to Stiles’ shock, seemed to give him a companionable nudge before he called out to Isaac to help him move the other couch into the room and disappeared through the hole in the wall.

While they were gone, Peter finally strolled in.

Stiles hasn’t seen him in months; not since he was right in the middle of the whole Nogitsune debacle.

The man looks a little stronger, broader; the arrogant tilt of his chin a little higher and Stiles could feel a faint stirring of worry underneath the thick blanket of weary apathy that seemed to be settling over him more and more.

Peter’s eyes met his and for a second he looked startled, eyes widening and actually jerking back a little. Before Stiles could ask him why though Derek and Isaac were carrying a rather battered but large couch out through the hole and dropping it opposite the one already in the room.

Lydia gave it a disdainful sniff before sitting herself primly on it, then Isaac, Scott and Kira joined her while Peter stayed where he was and Derek walked back over to join Stiles by the window.

“So I’m guessing us all being here has something to do with that,” Lydia broke the stilted silence and gestured to where the bite was visible on Liam’s wrist.

Peter perked up in interest and slid over to Liam, who shrunk back.

 _At least his instinct’s good_ , Stiles thought as Peter pushed the sleeve up to get a better look.

“How long ago?” he directed towards Scott, who blinked dazedly for a moment before connecting the dots in his brain enough to answer.

“Er, got to be over an hour now,” he glanced to Stiles for conformation and when Peter glanced over too he nodded.

With a put out look on his face Peter straightened and started heading for the door.

“Well, if he hasn’t started showing signs of rejecting it by now it’ll more than likely take. You’ll know for sure within the next twelve hours or so. Stiles, do be a dear and walk me out.”

Stiles started, unable to comprehend what Peter, who was patiently waiting for him over by the door, was asking of him. It was unusual, which definitely meant that Peter wanted something.

Everyone else seemed equally shocked and remained in stunned silence as Stiles pushed himself off the windows, just catching in the corner of his eye how Derek’s hand clutched for him for a moment, and made his way over to Peter.

Peter dipped his head sarcastically at Scott.

“A pleasure as always, Alpha,” then he wrapped his hand around Stiles’ wrist, the same wrist he had almost bitten over a year ago, and tugged him down the stairs.

Stiles didn’t bother trying to pull his hand out of Peter’s grip; he knew Peter would only let go when he was good and ready. He did try to speak once though, when they’d reached the bottom of the stairs, only to have Peter raise his free hand to halt him.

The man led him out of the building and down the street quite a way, before crossing the road and heading down another street, then down a wide alley to where a large garage door, complete with badly spelled graffiti, sat closed.

Peter pulled out a key, unlocked the heavy padlock and pushed the door up, it clanking noisily in the night time silence as it went.

Stiles was starting to get more than a little nervous and Peter, of course, picked up on it.

“Relax,” he sighed, looking like Stiles was being such an utter bore. “My car’s in here, can’t exactly keep it on the road in this neighbourhood,” and wandered over to the wall where he switched on a light that barely illuminated the place. Unsurprisingly, a classic Jaguar; an E Type 1973 V12 Roadster if Stiles was any judge (his dad loved classic cars, okay,) gleamed under the flickering, dull light.

“Always pegged you as a classic European car type.”

“I live to please you, Stiles,” that insufferable smirk was practically dripping from Peter’s words and Stiles could only sneer at him in response.

“Well what do you want then, because you sure as hell didn’t drag me down here just to show me your car.”

“Oh, Stiles, always so paranoid,” Peter purred as he slunk forward and was suddenly too close. Stiles tried to back up but Peter was gripping his wrist again, grinding the bones together horribly. A hiss of air escapes thorough Stiles’ teeth but he’d be damned if Peter made him whimper.

“I can feel every bone in your wrist,” Peter carried on as if nothing had happened. “I wonder how the others haven’t noticed? Maybe it’s because they’ve been seeing you almost every day so it may have been so gradual to them they haven’t even realised. You hide it fairly well under all of your layers too, but it’s hard to miss how sunken your face is.”

The wall next to the entrance hit Stiles’ back and Stiles realised he had literally just backed himself into a corner. Real smart move against something like Peter, genius.

The next thing he knew, Peter had released his wrist and was wrenching up his hoody and t-shirt, exposing his abdomen and torso. Stiles tried to curl in on himself, so Peter couldn’t see, but the werewolf pinned him back against the wall and held him immobile.

A human wouldn’t be able to see much in the poor light, but Stiles knew that to a werewolf it was almost as bright as day, so every bruise, cut, bite, welt, and scar, as well as the bandages that even Stiles could smell the antiseptic coming off of; all of it was exposed to Peter’s eyes.

There was a rising hysteria in Stiles’ mind. First Deaton, now _Peter_. Why were they the only ones to have noticed? Deaton knowing was bad enough, but Stiles didn’t think he’d do anything malicious with the information since he’d already had almost a week with it and hadn’t done anything. Peter however was the type to use information like this to fashion it into a blade so he could drive it into the recipients back.

Peter, who was suddenly releasing him, and Stiles’ body now unsupported slid down the wall to huddle on the dirty ground, once-agile fingers clumsily tugging at the t-shirt and hoody to try to cover himself again as fear made everything numb and slow. Then fingers that were not his own were grasping the material and pulling it down in a manner that was almost tender.

“Your heart sounds like it’s about to beat out of your chest. You need to calm down, Stiles; I’m not going to hurt you.”

Stiles wanted to snap at him like he would have at one time, but this was Malia’s biological father crouching in front of him and a psychopath in his own right. Maybe insanity ran in his bloodline. Malia was hurting him half instinctively, half because she didn’t understand why what she was doing was wrong. Peter though could probably break him apart in an hour what had taken his daughter months to do; he knew how to worm his way inside your head and _twist_. It wasn’t a good idea, given how vulnerable he was, to talk back to Peter right now.

“Yeah, you’re not gonna hurt me _now_. You’ll just bide your time, waiting for the right moment, like the evil zombiewolf you are.”

Apparently Stiles would never learn to take his own advice.

Peter chuckled, looking quite delighted.

“Still so much fire in you, even after my ‘daughter’ has played too hard. She has no idea what she’s doing to you I assume.”

Stiles shook his head and Peter rocked back on his heels looking contemplative.

“She-” Stiles had no idea why his mouth was opening and these damning words were coming out, to Peter of all people. “She’s not transferring over well. She’s made next to no development. I didn’t blame her at the beginning because she told me she just wanted Scott to help her figure out how to changer her back so she could go back to her life, but then she started calling me her ‘mate’ and how she’s never going to leave me and I thought that if I could fix her, make her understand… but she still acts more like a wild animal than a human and I think sometimes she does it on purpose because being human is hard and she doesn’t want to admit she’s struggling. There’s no reasoning or explaining things to her without a shit-ton of effort and she usually ends up getting angry anyway or refusing to take in the information out of frustration.”

Stiles glanced up to check Peter’s reaction but the man’s face was completely blank, so Stiles dared to continue.

“There’s no way in hell she should be in high school with an eight year education gap, and I can’t work out why no one else has realised that. She’s failing _all_ her classes. And it scares me how she’s approaching sex and her idea of a ‘romantic’ relationship; it’s a nine year old girl’s naïve knowledge, combined with an animal’s instinct. All of it’s so wrong,” he curled in on himself, too ashamed to look at Peter again as his eyes started to well. “And I’m so fucked up that I don’t have the ability to help her. I don’t even have the ability to help myself,” he pressed his face into his knees, in part to hide the tears, in part in a vain attempts to try to muffle the final words that forced themselves from his lips, like water through a broken dam. “Don’t deserve help anyway after what I did.”

“Feel better? You must have been holding all that in for quite a while for you to tell me so much. I thought you were wiser.”

Stiles shot him a narrowed eyed glare, feeling worn down to the very bone. Whoever said crying was good for you was a lying liar who lies.

“Of course I don’t feel better, and I know I’ve made it worse by giving you this ammunition.”

Peter snorted, as though Stiles had just said something so imbecilic he couldn’t contain himself.

“Believe it or not, Stiles, you’re pack and I have no wish to harm you. Losing it once was more than enough.”

Baffled, Stiles sat up a little straighter, ready to argue his point.

“But you killed Laura, and you almost killed Derek and the rest of us half a dozen times. And don’t think I don’t know that you’re plotting against Scott.”

“Laura wasn’t my alpha, I wasn’t her pack. True she was family, but honestly I was still so burned out inside and so consumed by the need for revenge at that time that I wouldn’t have been able to differentiate her from a stranger; I could only tell who she was when she called my name and it was too late by then. After, when I became the alpha only Scott was pack, and that was half hearted at best. With Derek as the alpha, sure I got him to surrender that power, but do you know how many times he was vulnerable in front of me? How many times I could have killed him and taken that power back as my own?”

Stiles shook his head, hypnotised by how Peter’s eyes were slowly starting to glow in the dull light as his half feral wolf rose closer to the surface. If Stiles hadn’t been right in front of him and decidedly in throat ripping range it would have been a fascinating thing to watch.

“I didn’t though, because he’d accepted me as pack and I didn’t want to see another member of my family dead. Then when Scott became alpha, his wolf side accepted me and we formed the pack bond, and by doing so tying me to the rest of you as well for better or worse. I admit I have my own plans for the future because you already know that, but what you don’t know is that even if I wanted to there’s next to no point in killing Scott.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because when you kill a true alpha their power doesn’t pass on to the killer. It can be passed down naturally to children, but because it was something that’s earned it cannot be taken. Apparently it’s how all alpha’s came to be at one time or another.”

“Wait, you just said that you can’t kill a true alpha for their power, so how would that work if all alphas were really true alphas. Then how did you take Laura’s power and Derek yours?”

Peter sent him a razor toothed smile.

“The first alphas were the true alphas yes, but their children were not and so it goes. I fear it was a depressingly short amount of time for those who wanted that power for their own to work that out,” Peter stood and held out his hand. Stiles faltered for a second before taking it and Peter pulled him to his feet effortlessly.

“By the way, you do deserve help and you don’t deserve for this to be happening to you. Stiles, I thought you of all people would have been smart enough to realise that the actions of the Nogitsune’s weren’t your own.”

Stiles could only gape at him, never in a million years expecting those words to come out of Peter’s mouth. Peter of course seemed to find it all terribly amusing and with a deceptively light laugh made his way over to the car.

“You’re pack, Stiles, do try to get your head around the idea that I have no wish to see you withering away. With you gone, life would be dull and predictable.”

He unlocked the door and slid into the driver’s seat in an enviably smooth movement before smiling indulgently at Stiles again, who was leaning against the wall in shock.

“Would you mind terribly closing the garage door after I’ve got the car out?”

Stiles nodded woodenly and the engine purred to life in a way that would have had his dad drooling. As soon as the car had slid out into the alley, Stiles went about robotically switching off the light, pulling down the garage door and re-padlocking it. Once done he turned to where Peter sat in the car watching him.

“Since I’ve taken up so much of your time I can only do what’s polite and drive you back around to my nephews.”

Stiles hesitated for a moment, eyeing the empty and dark alley that lead back towards Derek’s loft. A few seconds later he was sinking into the ridiculously comfortable passenger seat as Peter drove the car at a sedate pace down the alley and out into the road.

Not even half a minute later they were pulling up in front of Derek’s building, only to find said werewolf glowering at them furiously from the door.

“Oh dear, I do believe he’s a little annoyed,” Peter chuckled as Derek marched stiffly across the sidewalk, yanked open the passenger door and all but dragged Stiles out, pulling the teenager behind him defensively.

“Fear not, dear nephew, I’ve brought Stiles back unharmed. Well, I say unharmed…” he smirked and let the words hang in the air while Stiles tried to swallow past the lump that had just formed in his throat. Derek snarled.

“You asked Stiles to ‘walk you out’, not take him all the way to your damned car.”

Peter raised his hands placatingly, or rather it would have looked that way if not for the smug grin; like the cat that got the cream.

“Now, now, Stiles and I had something important to discuss regarding my treasured daughter. Just because you like to stick to grunts by way of conversation doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

Derek began growling, and from where Stiles was half pressed against the older man’s back he could feel it rattling from Derek’s chest and all the way through him right down to his toes.

Peter wasn’t impressed however and just rolled his eyes.

“Fine, I’ll be on my way. Oh, and do tell our dear alpha that I won’t be around for the foreseeable future; there’s something I have to look into.”

Then without even a goodbye he peeled away from the curb and was gone.

Derek only stopped growling when the sound of the car had long disappeared, he didn’t however release the tight grip he had on Stiles’ arm and since Stiles was starting to lose feeling in it he thought it best to call attention to it.

“Er, Derek? Kinda can’t feel my arm anymore. You mind letting go?”

His arm was immediately released and he flexed his hand to get the feeling back while Derek turned to stare at him for a long moment, questions brimming in his eyes.

“He really did just want to talk about Malia,” Stiles said quickly, and from the slight tilt to Derek’s head he knew the bastard was listening to his heartbeat.Of course he wouldn’t trust Stiles not to lie when it came to his uncle.

Instead of letting the bitter thought of Derek still not trusting him dig in to his mind too deeply until it would be all he could think about for the rest of the night, Stiles clapped his hands together and tipped his head towards the doors.

“Shall we head back up?”

Derek still looked like he had questions, but instead he squared his jaw, nodded once and headed back to the building with his face set in a scowl. He held the door open for Stiles though and lightly pushed him through with a hand to the small of Stiles’ back. He didn’t remove it either as they made their way back up.

When they entered the loft, Stiles found that Scott had already dropped the ‘you’re a werewolf now’ bomb, and judging from the fact that Liam was halfway up the staircase and screaming at everyone while Malia snarled delightedly at him from the top and Scott, Danny, Kira, and Parrish tried to reassure him from the bottom, he wasn’t taking it well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Peter demanded his own chapter.


	6. Sunlight on a Broken Column

After entering the loft and finding chaos both Stiles and Derek had wordlessly, with only a tilt of the head and raised eyebrows on Derek’s part and a nod on Stiles’, come to the conclusion that they were going to sit it out unless they were really needed.

Together they’d slumped down on the recently vacated couch and shifted about a bit until they were comfortable. Stiles didn’t notice to start with that the other two seated pack members had taken their eyes off of the spectacle on the staircase to gaze at them speculatively.

As soon as Stiles realised and met Isaac’s eyes the beta shrugged and went back to the entertainment. Lydia though kept her eyes pinned on both him and Derek for a long while, and Stiles could practically see the cogs turning behind them. He remained staring at her, too worn out to even expand the mental effort to try to work out why she was looking at them like that; gradually though he began to notice the things that his tired eyes were trying to tell him:

Lydia looked exhausted; as though she was stretched too thin, like butter scraped over too much bread. There was a paleness to her complexion that whispered of ill health rather than a fashion choice and while she was trying to hide them with the wonders of make-up she hadn’t re-applied it properly enough before arriving to completely cover the dark circles under her eyes.

Stiles moved his gaze to Isaac and noticed that he was in a similar state. It was difficult for a werewolf to look sickly but he was managing it. There was a slight greyness to his skin, a slump to his shoulders that hadn’t been there since he’d been turned and a glazed look to his eyes, as though he was looking right through everything.

Concerned, Stiles turned his focus to the rest of the pack.

Parrish looked a little tired, but Stiles guessed it was from the long shift. Danny was just looking a little put out, while Kira seemed as though she could do with a few nights of good sleep, but didn’t overall ring any alarm bells. Scott however…

You’d have to really know him to spot all the little tells that showed just how badly off Scott was, and Stiles did. It was in the way he didn’t quite stand straight, and how he’d keep on burying his hands in his pockets, only to pull them out again moments later. He’d done that for years whenever he’d been really stressed so he could grip on to the reassurance of his inhaler in case of an asthma attack. His eyes held the same glazed look as Isaac, as though he wasn’t really there inside, and even with the warmth of his complexion, the bags and slightly sunken look weren’t hard to miss if you knew what you were looking for.

It struck Stiles there and then, even though all the signs had been there from the very beginning and he’d _known_ but refused to listen to himself, that those who had been closest to Allison and had been caught up in the Nogitsune’s game from the beginning weren’t getting any better. It wasn’t just him.

Stiles had been planning on grilling Scott over how two hunters could get the jump on him so easily, and how he’d so failed to defend himself when usually he would have had them both taken care of quickly, to the extent that he’d _bitten a kid_. Usually Scott would have been able to use one hand, hell a _finger_ , to pull Liam back up, and Stiles had been struggling to understand why Scott hadn’t been able to this time. Now he could understand, because if Scott was feeling anything like him then it was a freaking miracle that the alpha could even pull himself out of bed in the mornings.

A rush of helplessness welled up inside of him and he burrowed in closer to Derek, who responded by gripping his shoulder a little tighter and putting his chin on Stiles’ head like he had the time before. Oh, maybe that was why Lydia was staring. It didn’t matter though because Stiles didn’t know what to do to help his friends. Given his current track record he would probably only make things worse.

He continued to berate himself and stew over his own uselessness until the others managed to calm Liam enough for him to climb cautiously descend the stairs.

All in all it had taken more than an hour to talk Liam down, and the boy had worked himself up into such a state during that time that he fell asleep almost as soon as he reached the floor. They dumped him in the ‘emergency’ bed and Derek promised Scott that he would stay in the main room with the kid for the rest of the night in case he woke up.

Scott seemed almost pathetically grateful and was swaying on his feet by that point, so it came as no surprise when Isaac appeared at his side and gently coaxed him out of the door with the promise of going home to sleep.

Kira and Lydia left with Parrish after that, who was sleepily mumbling something about making sure they got home okay while Kira tried to politely remind him about her sword and general badassness.

Danny seemed rather surprised of the position Stiles and Derek were in before he snorted, shook his head, and with a small smile waved once over his shoulder and was gone.

Malia was the last to leave and she didn’t bother with anything outside of a light growl at the two of them before she was thorough the door. She probably thought that Stiles would be making his own way back home soon but he had no intention of leaving the loft.

“S’okay if I stay again?” he mumbled as he tried to burrow even deeper into Derek’s shoulder. Seriously, no shoulder should be that comfortable.

“As long as you promise to do exactly as I say if Liam wakes up and wolfs out.” Stiles hummed his agreement, trying to ignore his minds apparent determination to self-destruct over the hopelessness of helping Scott, Lydia or Isaac.

Derek nudged him lightly with his chin.

“What’s up? Your heart rate keeps spiking.”

Stiles mulled over whether he should say anything for a short while before deciding fuck it, Peter had already learned more about Stiles than he wanted that evening, so it might be nice to impart some information by choice to someone he trusts (even if they didn’t trust him.)

“Scott,” he spoke into Derek’s shoulder and then turned his head slightly, lips skimming unintentionally over Derek’s collar bone to make his voice clearer. He froze but Derek gave no reaction to it and Stiles decided to go along with Derek’s actions and pretend it never happened.

“Lydia,” he continued. “Isaac, everyone who knew Allison well and who were caught up with the Nogitsune right from the start; none of them are getting any better. If anything I think they’re getting worse and I can’t fix it,” _because I caused it_ , he wanted to say but managed to bite back at the last second.

Derek was silent for a long while, eyes focused distantly on the far wall as his hand rubbed unconsciously in soothing circles on Stiles’ arm.

Just when Stiles thought he wasn’t going to respond at all, he spoke.

“It’s because of the pack bond. That’s why no one’s getting any better. If this continues then even the healthier members of the pack will start to be affected.”

Deaton had mentioned pack bonds in passing before and it had been on Stiles’ ‘To Look Into’ research list for an embarrassingly long time, but he knew next to nothing about them and said so. Derek sighed.

“Pack bonds are a connection that the alpha forms between themselves and the members of their pack. It begins to grow when an alpha starts to view someone as pack, but that’s only the initial, light bond. If the potential pack member wishes to become pack as well then the bond will strengthen and extend to the others in the pack. If they’re not interested, or if they move away for long enough, then the pack bond naturally dissolves over time.”

He paused for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts and Stiles hummed for him to carry on. Derek pulled him a little closer before continuing.

“The bond can’t make you like someone, nor would an alpha that wasn’t as insane as Peter ever try to force a beta to follow an order through it. It doesn’t work that way which was why Scott, even though he was so new at the time when Peter tried to make him to kill you and the others, could throw the compulsion off. Peter merely overwhelmed Scott with his own intent for a while, but because it wasn’t something Scott naturally felt it couldn’t last. However, the bond is meant to help with soothing disharmony within the pack; making it less likely for beta’s to want to turn on each other. You’ve seen what happens when all our strong personalities clash; if the pack bond hadn’t been there it would have likely been much worse.”

Stiles snorted at this, finding that now he finally had an answer for all the times he’s wondered how no one had ripped anyone else’s throat out yet. Then a thought occurred to him.

“Is it something that would also inspire loyalty to the alpha? Because if so then I think it might not have formed right or something when you were in charge.”

He hadn’t meant it cruelly, but he knew it was still an open wound for Derek, so it came as no surprise when the arm around him tightened briefly before forcefully relaxing again.

“Even though I was never meant to be an alpha,” Derek began haltingly. “I knew about the pack bond so I knew what it was when it formed. I just didn’t expect it to feel so different from that side. When you’re a beta it’s something that’s just there. Most of the time you don’t even notice it. But when you’re an alpha it’s always humming away in the back of your head and you need to constantly maintain it, checking for any signs of strain or damage. When I became alpha I instinctively needed to seek out power by turning others, but I didn’t trust myself to do the right thing for them after. How could I with my track record? So the bonds never went past the initial form, never cemented themselves into what they should have been, even when I tried when I realised they were all drifting away from me.”

He gave a bitter chuckle that made Stiles ache.

“Turns out the most important thing you need as an alpha is to be able to trust in yourself. Laura did, Peter, in his own twisted way did, and Scott does. I couldn’t, which was why it was so easy for them to leave me. Their instincts would have been telling them that I wasn’t a reliable alpha even if I’d appeared so in every other way, because even if they didn’t know what it was they would have still be searching for that bond. It calls to us and is like this constant ache in the back of your head when it’s not there. It’s a big part of why omegas are so weak and desperate and so prone to violence without it.”

He trailed off and Stiles just knew he was thinking of Erica and Boyd.

“So,” he said a little louder than necessary, trying to stop Derek’s train of thought. Derek blinked, his eyes cleared and he glanced down at Stiles with a glimmer of gratefulness on his face. “Scott trusts himself enough to be able to form the proper pack bonds with us, so why is it hindering us now?”

Derek grimaced.

“I’ve tried talking to him about them but he always says he’s busy. Maintaining the pack bonds can be very difficult for new alphas; I struggled and I was expecting them. Scott probably doesn’t know what they are and is ignoring them or isn’t aware of them; if you don’t know what you’re looking for with them it’s like trying to hold smoke.

“Scott’s a strong enough alpha to have been able to instinctively form the full bonds with us all, but because he doesn’t know how to look after them they’re probably all wide open, pouring the deepest of his feelings down them to us on top of our own grief. It wouldn’t be much, we’d barely be able to feel it, but even on the days where we might be doing a little better we would, due to the bond, subconsciously know our alpha is still suffering which would pull us back down again. It’s a vicious cycle: Scott can’t stop himself from feeling bad, so that feeling is being projected to us, making us feel bad, projecting back to him that we’re feeling bad, making him feel worse. If it continues it’ll start to affect the emotionally healthier ones in the pack too, and by that point the safest thing is usually to dissolve the bonds and by extension the pack since it makes us much more vulnerable to hunters and more prone to losing control.”

Stiles tried to hold in his exhausted groan, but it was just too stupid for him not to.

“Only Scott,” he sighed trying not to rub his sore eyes and failing. Derek grunted in agreement.

“Okay, so it’s up to us to fix Scott’s mess again,” he tried to say jokingly, but it fell rather flat. “So who d’you think is the worst affected? They should be who we keep the closest eye on.”

Derek was silent for a long while, but there was something about it that suggested that Derek was biting his tongue.

“Derek?” Stiles raised his head enough to fully look at him only to find Derek stubbornly looking away. “Hey, come on man, answer me.”

“Scott, I guess,” Derek ground out and there was something about the way he said it that made Stiles think he’d wanted to say someone else. “Then Lydia, since Allison was her best friend,” he continued. “Then Isaac, then I’d say your dad and Melissa-”

“Wait, what? Melissa I get, she’s Scott’s mom. But my _dad_ is part of the pack?” Stiles interrupted, sitting up and pushing away from Derek, making that man’s arm fall from his shoulder. Derek’s jaw worked and his arm twitched as though he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t.

“I thought you knew,” Derek grumbled. “It’s kind of obvious that Scott cares deeply about your dad and with the Sheriff now in the know Scott would have instinctively brought him in for his own safety.”

“For his safety,” Stiles repeated. “Does my dad even _know_ that he’s part of the pack?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him figuring it out,” and Derek had a point there, but the werewolf was continuing on. “Think back Stiles, over the past few months, since… everything, has he been acting depressed, angry maybe, or less able to shake things off?”

Stiles didn’t even had to think back before he was nodding and Derek’s face set in grim acceptance.

“What about Melissa? Have you seen her recently?”

“No, I haven’t seen her for a while,” not for lack of trying on her part from the amount of texts he’d received from her in increasing intensity over the past couple of months. She’s turned up at the house a few times as well when his dad had been out and it was only because she had a distinctive knock that had stopped Stiles from answering the door before it was too late.

Stiles did want to see her, he longed to with a fierce, sad ache. He wanted to be wrapped up in one of her amazing hugs as she would whisper that everything was going to be okay. He _missed_ the closest person he had to a mother; he even missed how she would act when she was totally done with his shit, but he had to avoid her for one simple reason: she was a nurse, and a damn good one. She would only need to take one look at him to know something was wrong and he couldn’t fight her, never her, and she’d figure it all out and maybe put herself in danger by trying to confront Malia and he’d rather _die_ then put her in harm’s way because Malia would _kill_ her and Derek was shaking him. Why was he shaking him?

“Stiles!” Derek barked and Stiles blinked, then realised he wasn’t breathing.

It took a surprising amount of effort to remember how to unclench his lungs and take in a huge, burning breath that made his eyes water.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he gasped as the tears started streaming down his face, and he would be in a minute because Derek had pulled him out before the panic attack could really set in. Derek unsurprisingly didn’t look convinced. “I just-I just-” Stiles’ mind remained traitorously blank then he realised that Derek was clutching him close again and typical of his mind his thoughts went skittering off in another direction.

“Are you ever going to explain why you’ve suddenly turned into a cuddle monster with me?”

That certainly threw Derek for a loop for a moment before he sighed and with more gentleness that Stiles thought him capable of he reached up and brushed the tears from Stiles’ face.

“I’m not going to be able to get you to explain to me what just happened, am I?”

Stiles shook his head, but very carefully because Derek’s hand was still cupping his cheek and there was something so soothing in it that he didn’t want it to stop. Just as Derek looked about to answer a thought much more relevant to their conversation popped up.

“Wait, wait, wait. Before you answer that can you let me know just one more thing about the pack bonds?”

Derek’s eyebrows quirked and then he settled back on the couch, pulling Stiles with him, and gestured for him to go ahead.

“Right, so you said the worst affected were the one’s who’d been there right from the beginning, not just with the N-Nogitsune thing” Stiles’ voice quivered alarmingly and he had to pause for a moment, Derek’s hand having moved from his cheek went back to rubbing soothingly up and down his arm again. “And those of us who knew Allison best, like Kira really only came in right towards the end and she didn’t have the time to get to know Allison before… so it makes sense that she’s a bit affected but not as badly as the others. So, my question is why aren’t you?”

Derek sighed.

“I am, Stiles.”

Stiles could feel his face crease into a frown.

“But you look fine, you’re not acting any more douchy than normal, if anything you’ve been nicer. Wait, is that how I’m meant to realise that you’re, like, crumbling to pieces like the others? You being nice? You maybe could have picked something a little more obvious, like, I dunno, blind rage?”

“I ‘look fine’ and aren’t acting angry or depressed because I’m more used to living with loss,” and damn, he just said it so matter-of-factly that it just punched all of the air right out of Stiles’ chest. Derek wasn’t finished though. “I learned a while after my family died how to get up each morning, how to dress like you cared what people saw you wearing, and how to go about doing those fucking pointless but necessary things like buying groceries without anyone figuring out you were just ashes inside. Drive a nice car, style your hair, flirt every now and then, and everyone thinks you’re fine. People are usually too caught up in their own problems to look any deeper.”

Derek turned to face Stiles and Stiles wasn’t quick enough to hide the horrified look on his face. Derek jerked a little, as though he hadn’t meant to say all that, and his face flickered though a series of emotions too quick for Stiles to work out before he seemed to decide something and the shutters finally fell. For the first time Stiles saw Derek’s grief and it was like comparing a stream to the Niagara Falls. Never mind getting out of bed in the morning, how did Derek even manage to _breathe_ under the weight of it?

Stiles wasn’t aware of the fact that he was whimpering, or his hands coming up to trace the heavy lines of desolation across Derek’s face, but he was aware of his hands hooking behind Derek’s neck and pulling him down, the werewolf not bothering to resist, to rest against his chest. After a little shuffling Stiles ended up lying back along the couch with Derek lying on top of him, caged in by Stiles’ legs; his head resting right over Stiles’ heart while Stiles’ hands ran softly through his hair.

“It helps if you give yourself something to focus on.”

“What?” Stiles asked, trying to stop himself from doing something idiotic that in no way would help; like bursting into tears at the utter unfairness of it all.

“I said; it helps if you give yourself something to focus on. Laura was driving herself crazy worrying over me and when I realised how much I was hurting her I found something to lose myself in, which was my school work. It kept me occupied so I didn’t have time to think and it helped Laura so much, then it got to the point where I actually started to enjoy what I was studying.”

“Was that why you became so obsessed with Scott when we first met?” There was no way in hell Stiles was going to mention Laura.

Derek shifted and for a moment Stiles thought he was going to try to get up, but instead he nuzzled back into Stiles’ chest and nudged his hands back into continuing their ministrations in Derek’s hair.

“Yeah, without Scott there was only the alpha, Peter, to focus on and I knew if I lost myself in that then there was no way I was going to live through it. Honestly, I still didn’t expect to survive.”

There was a heavy silence and Derek might as well have said the words that swam in the air between them, _I didn’t want to_ , because they rang out so clearly to Stiles. Instead he tightened his legs, giving Derek a gentle squeeze, and wrapped his arms more fully around Derek’s shoulders.

He didn’t know why it had never occurred to him that if there was anyone in their pack who might understand his suicidal impulses it would be Derek. Maybe Isaac, but the young beta didn’t really trust or seem to like Stiles all that much.

“So who or what are you focusing on now?” Stiles croaked out, trying to repress the rising tide of words that just wanted to spill out everything to the man currently slumped across him. This time the silence took on a decidedly awkward quality and Derek did start wiggling out of Stiles’ grasp. As soon as Stiles realised what he was doing he locked his arms and legs around him, and although Derek could easily break their hold he stilled and glanced up guiltily towards Stiles’ face.

“Wait, _me_?”

“I didn’t really mean to,” Derek rushed out. “I just went up to the old house one day and your scent was everywhere. Then when I realised you’d been _sleeping_ there I had to make sure you were okay. You have to realise how monumentally stupid that was of you, Stiles.”

Stiles was reeling. He was Derek’s project? To stop the older man from losing himself? Honestly, he didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered.

“Well, yeah, but I’m here now so it’s a moot point,” was all he was able to stutter out and Derek’s face sort of crumpled a little in relief.

“I still don’t know if I ought to be mad at you,” Stiles grumbled as Derek pushed his face back into his chest and Stiles couldn’t help his fingers returning to Derek’s hair. “Ask me again in a week and I might have an answer. I guess this explains all the touching though. Was it like a ‘you trying to soothe me’ thing?”

“No, it’s a ‘werewolves are naturally tactile with their pack’ thing.”

Stiles snorted again.

“Seriously? That doesn’t quite add up, dude. I mean, Scott was always fairly touchy feely with me after he was bitten, but he hasn’t done anything like that since… yeah. And Isaac I think has only ever touched me while he’s pushing me around. I guess you’ve touched me a bit every now and again, but that was more along the lines of pushing me away from the dangerous thing or, y’know, pushing me into doors or slamming my head on a steering wheel. Ringing any bells?”

“You’re never going to let that go,” Derek grumbled into his chest, but he sounded almost teasing and Stiles was left a little lightheaded over how that made him feel.

“Never,” Stiles promised, trying to fight a yawn.

In the corner Liam groaned and rolled over, causing Stiles to freeze and Derek to jerk his head up, eyes glowing.

When Liam showed no other sign of movement, Derek cautiously sank back down onto Stiles, keeping his head turned towards the bed this time. He relaxed marginally when Stiles started running his fingers through his hair again, but the calm atmosphere that had been there moments ago was now gone.

“So, I was saying that it didn’t add up,” Stiles whispered, unable to take his eyes off of the sleeping teen.

“I guess it would be harder to realise without a werewolf’s nose,” Derek murmured, definitely slurring a little in his sleepiness. “Packs do usually like to be tactile with everyone, but even in those cases everyone will have favourites. For me it was my mom, Laura, and my little cousin Sam. Bitten wolves don’t have the same need for physical intimacy like born wolves do; with werewolves like me and Cora if we go too long without touching a pack member it can start to cause us physical pain. That’s why born wolves would usually rather die than become omega’s. With bitten wolves they do still crave it, but not so intensely, and are usually fine if they can do it with just one pack member. Like at the start for Scott it was you and Allison, and for Isaac, Erica and Boyd it was each other. Now Scott and Isaac have each other. If you could smell them you’d realise that they sleep in the same bed more often than not; that’s the only way they could smell so much of each other without hanging all over each other all day. Like most of the rest of the werewolf stuff with them, they’re probably only doing it instinctively and wouldn’t really be able to explain why if you asked them.”

Stiles’ head was swimming with all of the new information; he remembered how Derek, even at the start, had always been finding a way to constantly touch him or Scott even if it was in the guise of a rough push, and how once Cora was found the two siblings were always touching, the strain on their faces seeming to pacify a little whenever they were in physical contact with each other. Stiles had thought it was them both being driven to confirm that the other was really _there_ , and who could blame them? The idea that Derek not touching his pack was _causing him physical pain_ had never occurred to him and he was swamped with the knowledge that there was still so many things he didn’t know about werewolves, to everyone’s detriment it seemed like because he was meant to be the ‘plan guy’, the one who figured everything out and had all the answers. It was disappointing but not unsurprising for him to find himself failing in that too.

There were so many things Stiles wanted to ask, but he was barely keeping his eyes open, he was aching everywhere, and Derek’s body was surprisingly not crushing him and was instead like a warm, safe (and okay, a bit heavy but in a grounding way that kept his thoughts from flying off,) blanket. He knew he needed to wrap up the conversation in as amiable a way as possible before he fell asleep, so as not to break this tentative thing he had going on with Derek that was fast becoming the most precious thing in his life. Delicacy, that was what was needed.

“All I got from that was that I’m your favourite cuddle buddy now.”

It was faint, but Derek’s body shook a little in a light chuckle.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

And Stiles did, safe in the knowledge that even if it was only for that night, that Derek was protecting him from harm: Malia, his memories, his nightmares; none of them could reach him here.

xXx

Stiles woke the next morning to find Derek still asleep on top of him. He was stiff everywhere from having stayed in the same position all night, but otherwise felt more rested than he had in a long time.

As he took in the man snoozing away on him he wondered why he wasn’t more weirded out by the shift in their relationship. The old him from before the Nogitsune, before Allison, before Malia, would have been shocked (mainly because he’d been convinced that Derek hated him back then.) The old him even further back, back when the whole werewolf thing first started would have probably tried to disown his future self, but things that had been important to him back then, like lacrosse, popularity, girls, parties, all of it seemed so insubstantial now – worthless. He’d been so naïve. Now, the most precious thing was-

Derek pulled him from his musings as he started to stir.

He expected at least a little awkwardness when Derek awoke, but the werewolf had simply rubbed his face into Stiles’ chest, gave him a very small but genuine sleepy smile and then asked if he wanted coffee.

Liam seemed perfectly fine and bite-free, if a little grumpy from being woken so early, and he’d left peacefully enough with Scott when he’d turned up, both of them going over what they could tell Liam's parents about where he'd been for the night.

Stiles had had to head home soon after and his day had predictably gone downhill from there when he came face to face with a furious Malia as soon as he’d walked through the door.

Within ten minutes she’d utterly destroyed the last dregs of contentment he’d been carrying with him and everything was grey again. He’d had to sneak the medical ice pack that he now left in there permanently, hidden under the frozen vegetables, from the freezer to ice his ribs after she was finished with him.

Then, not even twenty-four hours after waking up at Derek’s, Stiles received his second call from Scott in as many months.

Liam had apparently wolfed out in front of his best friend, a kid called Mason, and could have killed him if Scott hadn’t been hanging around nearby in an overly paranoid state of mind, which was evidently needed.

After he’d calmed Liam down, Scott had dealt with the situation in the most Scott way possible and had invited Mason to join the pack too.

Liam was apparently all on board with the idea of his BFF being included and now actually seemed excited about learning to control his new abilities.

At the thought of not only a new fifteen year old werewolf, but also his squishy human friend who would inevitably end up neck deep in shit, joining their pack while it was on the verge of crumbling Stiles could feel a migraine coming on and got straight in the jeep to head to Derek’s.

xXx

At school later that week Lydia pulled him aside as everyone was heading to first period.

Stiles only had to take one look at her face to know she was on the verge of crumbling and had pulled her out to his jeep. She’d followed as he’d tugged her along like a lost lamb.

The ride was peaceful as he aimlessly drove for a while, not really caring anymore if one of his dad’s deputies spotted him.

It was a beautiful, crisp day and Stiles knew that the air would be perfectly clear, so he wound his way up to the observation point that looked out over the Preserve. He hoped the stunning view might calm Lydia a little.

After he parked they both sat there as the minutes ticked by, just staring out at the forest stretching away into the mountains in the far distance that were capped with gleaming snow.

“Allison won’t let me sleep,” Lydia finally rasped out keeping her eyes fixed out of the window, the sharp light highlighting just how exhausted she was. She looked like she’d aged ten years.

“Every night she’s there, asking me why I hadn’t tried harder to warn her. The worst thing is that she’s always so nice about it to start with, as if she can’t believe that her best friend could let her down like that, and then it’s like she realises that she’s dead and that I _did_ let her down. Sometimes she gets angry, but it’s always worse when she cries,” tears started to run down Lydia’s face as she talked on, oblivious. “She talks about how her dad is all alone now and how her and Isaac were just starting out, and she keeps asking me why I would do that to her."

She curled up in the seat; a tiny ball of misery.

“I think I’m going mad again,” she chuckled darkly.

Soothing wasn’t going to work here, it wasn’t what she needed. Her family and friends had been tiptoeing around her for months and she was probably numb to it by now.

“That’s bullshit and you should be smart enough to know that, Lydia Martin.”

She snapped her head around, hair sticking to her wet cheeks and make up smeared, with her eyes bulging in surprise and mouth dropping open unattractively. It felt like a triumph because Lydia never intentionally did anything if she thought it would make her look distasteful, which meant that in that moment he had managed to get through to her and had her full attention.

“I can’t believe you used that line on me, Lydia, on _me_. Probably the only other person you know, outside of Peter, that really knows what insanity feels like.”

He was trying to make himself sound sharp, serious, coldly outraged, but the actual emotions were beyond his grasp. For Lydia’s own good he hoped he sounded convincing. He shuffled around to face her a little more and she was still gaping at him.

“Do you really think the Allison in your dreams is real? Because I think it’s your guilt talking. You did everything you could, Lydia, and I know that by saying that won’t magically make it all go away, but you’re grieving, not going mad. If we can get this whole shit with Scott sorted then you, and the rest of us, can hopefully start to move on with it.”

“Wait, what? Scott? What’s Scott got to do with this?”

Stiles winced.

“Right, I haven’t had the chance to tell you yet. It might be best to go and speak to Derek about it because I’m not sure I’m getting it right. Something about how he’s affecting all of us, stopping us from healing, because of the pack bond. So that’s making him feel worse which is making us worse.”

Lydia pulled a tissue from her purse, wiped the tears from her face and sat a little straighter.

“Stiles Stilinski, you will tell me everything you know about this right now.”

So Stiles did and typically of Lydia she instantly wrapped her head around it. “Well that does make sense,” she slumped back in the seat frowning thoughtfully. “While losing Allison has been beyond horrific I’ve been really starting to feel overwhelmed with the fact that I felt like I’m getting worse as time goes on, not better. You’re right, while I still can’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t done enough it didn’t make sense for it to get this bad when I also know I _had_ actually done everything I could.”

Stiles shrugged a little helplessly, fingers picking at his jeans. Just this small emotional effort had wrung him dry and he was having trouble absorbing what she was saying. It had been happening more and more recently, the way his mind would feel too exhausted to keep up with a conversation or lesson and just quit.

“So when are you and Derek going to talk to him about this? The sooner the better, obviously.”

“Er,” Stiles’ thoughts were sluggish as he struggled to get them in order. “I think Derek’s going to try to talk to him again at the pack meeting this week.”

Lydia appeared satisfied with his answer and pulled a handheld mirror from her bag.

“God, I look a complete mess,” she sighed and started reapplying her make up. Soon the make-up smears were gone, the bags under her eyes were covered, and she had a (fake) glowing complexion again. It was a little intimidating to see how efficiently she covered up the physical signs of her issues, but at the same time he realised he was trying to memorise what she was doing in case he had to cover up any too-noticeable bruises in the future that couldn’t be answered with his age old ‘I’m clumsy’ excuse.

She briskly snapped the mirror shut, a self-satisfied smile gracing her features and for a moment she looked like the old queenly and cold Lydia again. Then she turned to him, running her eyes over his form in a way that made him feel horribly exposed and he caught himself wondering how quickly he could dive out of the car and dash away.

She leant towards him suddenly, reaching out with a hand and he automatically flinched back, almost blending himself with the door his back was pressed against it so hard. She halted, blinking a little in shock before her features softened and the warmth returned to her eyes. Slowly she continued reaching out with her hand and ran it gently through his hair before pulling back; Stiles not un-tensing until she was back to sitting properly in her seat.

“I just realised that you’re no longer styling your hair but I can’t remember when you stopped doing it,” her eyes ran over him again, but less critically this time. “And didn’t you wear those clothes yesterday?”

Frankly Stiles couldn’t remember when he’d stopped doing things like styling his hair or caring what he wore. He showered himself when he thought he might be starting to smell, shaved because the few hairs he could grow itched his skin, and he brushed his teeth because the taste of morning breath was unpleasant to him, but other than that any personal grooming had fallen by the wayside.

His room was filled with clothes that either no longer fit him or were worn out because of everything he’d been through for the past year, but he couldn’t find it in himself to summon up the energy to go shopping.

The current clothes he was wearing he had indeed worn yesterday; his trainers were falling to pieces, the jeans had a couple of holes on the left thigh, the t-shirt had a big tear in the armpit, the shirt he wore over it had some bloodstains that he’d never been able to get out and the hoody over the top was just very worn and dirty. All in all he looked like he felt: worn out, dirty, ruined, _trash_.

He was struck with a growing sense of horror that if he didn’t handle this very carefully then Lydia would drag him out shopping. The mere idea of it made his chest tighten horribly as he fumbled for a way to explain to her, without concerning her, that doing things to make him look or feel nice anymore was pointless.

“Yeah, I’ve just felt like going a bit natural with my hair right now, and I guess I’ve just gotten a bit lazy with my clothes. I totally forget I had a massive load of laundry to do yesterday so I was left with nothing to wear.”

He laughed, a little too shrilly to his own ears, feeling almost giddy over the simple fact that he could lie to Lydia’s face and she couldn’t call him on it because of his heartbeat giving him away.

Lydia seemed to believe it, although she still looked a little doubtful and Stiles cast about for what he’d usually do in this sort of situation; oh yes, he’d make some sort of lame joke that no one would find funny.

“Honestly I’m surprised with how funky my clothes are that I didn’t make Isaac pass out in homeroom. I mean even I can tell that they smell pretty ripe, so imagine what it must be like for our furry friends! Maybe I could make this into an offensive move: ‘The Stilinski Stink’. Has a nice ring to it, huh?”

She bought it, the last of the doubt faded from her face and she wrinkled her nose and sniffed exaggeratedly.

“Oh, that reminds me actually,” she said lightly in the way that suggested that whatever she was about to say was actually serious. “I had an interesting talk with Isaac a few days ago. Well I say talk, but it started with him going on a tangent about Allison and me getting angry with him and running off in tears. When he caught up to apologise I asked him why he hadn’t realised he was upsetting me so much. I mean, he was talking about her for what felt like ages while I was getting more and more upset, so shouldn’t he have been able to smell it?”

Stiles nodded automatically.

“He told me that it’s really hard to tell with some of the pack; specifically me, you, Scott, and Derek. Apparently we always smell unhappy now, and that you also always smell of blood and pain too.”

“Since-since when? Did he say?” dread rose in his stomach and he felt sick. A familiar heaviness settled over Lydia’s face.

“Since the Nogitsune. When I pressed him about why you smell of blood and pain too he told me that you’d been like that since the Nogitsune split itself from you. He said that you’d smelled like you were dying while the Nogitsune was still free and he figured it probably did some long term damage to you and that you were still healing. Scott apparently talked to him and Derek about it a while ago and said not to bother you about it; that you needed some time to heal.”

Well at least now he had an answer as to why none of the wolves had ever bothered him about his injuries when they had to be able to smell them.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he mumbled and Lydia let out a sigh.

“I’m going to kick Derek’s ass if he doesn’t talk to Scott about the pack bonds soon, the idea of me wandering around smelling of sadness annoys me.”

Stiles didn’t really have anything to say to that. He’d run out of energy and wanted to wrap the conversation up. Lydia seemed more level headed again, the worst of her breakdown now behind her; she now had the answer as to why she was doing so poorly and a goal to focus on, so he felt it was safe to end it here before any questions he wouldn’t be able to wriggle his way out of came up.

“Hey, if we head back now we’ll be in time for second period.”

Lydia smoothed out her skirt before pulling her seatbelt across.

“Okay, let’s go.”

When they got back to the parking lot Stiles was caught off guard when Lydia came around the car and enfolded him in a tight hug.

He’d always been thrilled to be hugged by Lydia in the past, even after he fell out of love with her, but now the feel of her breasts pushing up against him as her sharp nails pressed just above the still healing wounds on his back made him feel sick and helpless.

She held him for a long moment, apparently not put off from him keeping his hands hovering uselessly in the air above her, before she pulled back gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and whispered a thanks. Then she was gone, sashaying away across the car park with all the grace of a ballerina, effortlessly getting the sea of students heading for their next class to part before her diminutive stature through force of presence alone. A true queen.

Stiles had to take a few moments to shake of the phantom feel of her that lingered on his skin before grabbing his backpack and dragging himself towards his next class, head down, trying to make himself as invisible as possible as people jostled and pushed past him.

He managed to make it in time and as he slid into his seat there was a soft growl from behind him.

Throat drying he glanced over his shoulder and met the snarling face of Malia.

“You stink of Lydia,” she hissed, eyes flashing briefly and fangs making a quick appearance. “Were you rolling around with her or something?”

“She-she just hugged me,” he rasped and she sneered at him.

“Don’t let her do it again. I can put up with you stinking of Derek because he’s a man, but I’ll tear your face off if you turn up in front of me again smelling of another woman.”

He had no choice but to agree.

xXx

When Stiles wore the same clothes to school again the next day Lydia stared right through him and flinched at loud noises.

He heard her say to Danny that she’d had a bad night’s sleep when he’d asked her if she was okay as they were leaving a lesson, Stiles following just behind them.

Stiles hadn’t really expected his words to help, but he had hoped that they might have given her something to work with enough to give her at least one night’s peaceful sleep; she usually did better when she had a goal to focus on.

He thought he’d learned by now that he rarely helped with anything, but apparently not if the way a heavy weight settled over his heart was any indication. He longed to go to her to apologise, but Malia’s threat still hung over his head and he didn’t doubt the were-coyote from following through for a second.

Quietly he turned and headed in the opposite direction to Lydia and Danny, vowing that he wouldn’t let his need to always butt into people's business with his opinion control him anymore. It wasn’t as though anyone ever really listened to him anyway. It wouldn’t be missed.


	7. More Distant and More Solemn

Stiles remained away from the pack meetings so he couldn’t be blamed for not knowing about Kira, Danny, Mason, and Liam’s plan to try to cheer everyone up a week after Liam was turned. (Kira and Danny had apparently been quick to clue the boys in on the pack’s tragic history and the two fifteen year olds had been determined in a kind-hearted but naïve way to ‘fix’ the situation, hence the ‘cheer everyone up’ plan which was fully endorsed by Kira and Danny.)

Their first act was to have everyone, including Parrish and Derek, over to Lydia’s house on a Friday night to watch movies. Lydia had only demanded that as host she got to pick the first film, which was unsurprisingly The Notebook.

Having already seen it and in no mood to watch ‘the perfect romance’ with Malia sitting next to him, Stiles excused himself before the opening scene and had ended up in the study that had formally been Lydia’s fathers but was now hers.

There were packed bookshelves lining the walls from floor to ceiling as well as a prominent pile of books sitting next to a very comfortable armchair. When Stiles had spotted a few titles along the lines of ‘Norwegian Myths’ amongst them he’d settled in and started to read.

Typical of him it mostly consisted of him skimming pages until something caught his eye and if it was something interesting or something that might prove to be useful then he’d make a note of it on his phone to look into further later. The technique meant that he could go through books quickly and finish with a vague knowledge of what they covered, which could be handy in the future.

After finishing the third book he reached for the fourth, at this point no longer bothering to look at the cover, and flicked it open a few pages in.

Nonsense words stared up at him.

The next thing he knew he was cowering in the corner between the bookcase and window, eyes fixed on the book where it had fallen to the floor.

He tried to calm his racing heart even as he rocked back and forth whining in the back of his throat, hyperaware of the fact that the pack was just down the corridor and he desperately didn’t want them to see him falling apart like this. He didn’t want them to _know_.

It had to be his imagination. He’d not had enough sleep for he didn’t know how long. Was it any wonder that he was starting to hallucinate? The Nogitsune was trapped and was never getting out, it had not come back to take him again.

Shaking, sobbing, hyperventilating, ignoring the way his nose had started to run or the taste of blood filling his mouth from where he kept biting into his lip, he crawled forward slowly.

It was a gradual process; he froze every time he thought he heard a sound and had to keep pausing whenever he was really struggling to breathe. By the time he reached the book his vision had black spots dancing across it and his ears were ringing.

The book itself was an old leather bound one, the title so worn that Stiles’ current vision couldn’t make it out. With a wretched sob, Stiles reached forward with a shaking hand and turned the book over, terrified of what he would see.

It took a moment for his eyes to focus enough to comprehend the words and then Stiles let out a broken wail. They were still indecipherable. It was too late, either the Nogitsune was back or his sanity had finally snapped. He could feel himself slipping away, one piece at a time, and he couldn’t help but wonder what he would become – another monster or just a gibbering, drooling wreck? It didn’t matter though because neither of those things would be him and he wouldn’t be there to know.

From what seemed like very far away, Stiles could see the door opening and Derek walk in, his head turned and looking behind him warily.

“Stiles, do you mind if I stay in here for a bit? I needed a break,” Derek’s voice sounded so muffled Stiles could barely understand him. He watched Derek move in a way that seemed strangely slow as the man shut the door before turning towards where Stiles lay.

Even with his consciousness fading away Stiles didn’t think he’d ever seen someone’s face drain of colour so quickly. He blinked and then Derek was kneeling in front of him and picking him up. It seemed that even when he was on the verge of passing out and his sanity splintering that he could still be impressed by a werewolf’s ridiculous strength as Derek effortlessly maneuverer his limp body around until he was lying in Derek’s lap with his back pressed to the man’s chest. His head lolled forward like a puppet with its strings cut, but then Derek’s large, warm hand was pressing it back so it was leaning on his shoulder. Derek’s own head dipped forward to press against the base of Stiles’ neck and it was only because Stiles could now feel Derek’s lips moving against his skin did he realise that he’d been talking.

The ringing in his ears was too loud to make out what Derek was saying, which frustrated Stiles in a detached way, so instead he fixated on the pounding heartbeat he could feel through his back, trying to focus only on that.

Little by little it started to work. His breathing calmed and the ringing and spots dancing across his tunnel vision faded. Stiles slowly came back from wherever he’d been going; became aware of the fact that he was gazing vacantly at the ceiling as tears continued to stream from his eyes, that his numb limbs were still badly shaking, and that while it had calmed his heart was still racing painfully. Finally Derek’s words started to register.

“-can’t do this to me. Not you. Need you to breathe, need you to come back to me. Don’t go, Stiles. Don’t leave me here. I can’t anymore, Stiles, I need you to ground me-” and it continued on in one long, desperate stream.

Feeling started to come back in the way of painful pins and needles, making Stiles aware of how his legs were folded a little uncomfortably and how his arms hung uselessly by his sides. More importantly though was being able to feel just how tightly Derek was clutching him, and the way he was rocking them both backwards and forwards in small, helpless movements. The most alarming feeling however was how damp the skin and clothing at the base of his neck was, where Derek’s face was pushed into it. Was the sourwolf really crying? For him?

“Ngggfhhh,” not his smoothest entrance into a conversation.

Derek froze for a second before he was a flurry of motion; sitting Stiles more upright, straightening his legs and anchoring Stiles more firmly against his chest so his head was resting against Derek’s collarbone. All the time Derek kept up a steady litany of supportive words.

“That’s it, Stiles, focus on your breathing. I’ve got you. You’re doing great, just keep up with the breaths, try to match your breathing to mine. It’s okay, you’re safe, I’ve got you.”

Stiles did his best and managed to match his breaths to the rising and falling of the chest pressing into his back. The last of the spots dancing across his vision finally flickered away, the ringing in his ears gradually ceased and he was suddenly back in his body, in control, and it was almost enough to send him spiralling again. Derek grounded him though, stubbornly keeping him there in the room with his sheer presence carrying on his calming words.

“See I was right, I really should do this more often; look how nice you’re being to me. Wouldn’t have thought you capable of it before,” it took Stiles a moment to realise the cracked, tired voice followed by a wheezing chuckle that filled the room was his own.

He tried to look up but Derek stubbornly hooked his chin over Stiles’ head and kept him in place.

“Don’t move,” he ground out.

“S’pretty much the cruellest thing you can ask of someone with ADHD, sourwolf.”

“Well, fine,” Derek relented and relaxed his tight hold on Stiles a little. “Try not to move too much, you just put your body through a hell of a lot and pushing yourself too soon could set you off again.”

“Yeah, really don’t want that, so I hereby promise I will lie here quietly for a while.”

There was a faint, shaky snort above him.

“I don’t think you could be quiet if you tried.”

Stiles glared at the wall since he still couldn’t raise his head, all too aware of the stilted fragility beneath the weak humour that they both were electing to ignore for now.

“I would so take offense to that if I didn’t accept how true that statement was.”

Ironically they both fell silent for a while: Stiles readjusting to his own body again and re-familiarising himself with all of its aches and ticks, still frustrated with the slight trembling in his hands, while Derek just seemed to Stiles to be taking the time to calm himself down.

“You really do give a damn about me,” Stiles hadn’t really been able to keep those words buried, unable to really comprehend that Derek Hale, who for all his faults was still one of the best people he knew, could actually care about him. They had sneaked out between his lips, so small and shaky that Stiles had entertained the brief hope that they had gone unheard, but then Derek was shifting behind him, drawing Stiles in a little closer, and that hope was dashed.

“I would have thought that to be obvious by now,” the wry tone not really bellying the importance of the words.

“Well, it’s like,” Stiles waved one hand helplessly, “I know we’ve saved each other a few times now, but that was more along the lines of ‘it’s us against them and it’s better if there is as much of _us_ as possible’, y’know? It thought that outside of that you just put up with me.”

Derek sighed.

“If I tell you will you tell me what got you into such a bad state?”

Stiles muttered an affirmative, pointedly keeping his eyes away from the book that he kept catching glimpses of in his periphery still lying innocently on the carpet.

“I did ‘just put up with you’ at first. You were this annoying, sarcastic, hyperactive, too-nosy-for-his-own-good, fragile little human who stupidly kept on turning up in all of these dangerous situations. I thought you were turning Scott against me so you could selfishly try to figure out how to control Scott’s new abilities, putting people at risk, just so you could remain BFF’s and giggle about your big secret instead of letting me teach him.”

Stiles wanted to protest, but then he tried to consider their first few interactions from Derek’s point of view and it painted a pretty incriminating picture.

“It didn’t take too long to figure out that Scott wanted nothing to do with me for his own reasons, and that you were just trying to keep a lid on him. Then I realised how damn smart you were, and how much you’d picked up from your dad over the years. Before I knew it you were the one I would always want to go to first if we had a problem, and although I have never and will never be happy to see you in the middle of a battle I know that I can rely on you to have my back when I need it, which until fairly recently I couldn’t say for anyone else. Then it was really only after we all started to feel like a pack under Scott did I realise that I wanted to know you outside of when our lives were in danger. I said you were sarcastic, but Laura used to call me the most sardonic asshole she’d ever met, and I said you were smart; I really find it refreshing to be able to talk to someone at a level that I haven’t been able to for ages.”

“What about Lydia, or for the hell of it, Peter?” Stiles couldn’t help interrupting. He knew that he was smart, but most people weren’t interested in having debates or bouncing around ideas because of Stiles’ jumpy thought process, leaping from one thread to another without any apparent link, or his pessimistic, more than a little bitter, outlook; so he couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Derek actually _wanted_ to talk to him. Frankly he’d thought the conversation they’d had in the old Hale house about what Derek had studied had been a one-off.

“Peter I don’t want to talk to for obvious reasons and Lydia because I partially remind her of Peter, but that we also aren’t comfortable enough not to butt heads if we got into a debate.”

Stiles still couldn’t repress the waves of disbelief of someone willingly being around him. Not even Scott or his dad wanted to very much anymore. Derek must have either smelled it, or knew him well enough now to know where his thoughts would be going (and that was just scary in and of itself) because he let out such a great sigh that Stiles, who was still trying to steady his feebly weak limbs, would have toppled forward if not for the iron bars mascaraing as arms keeping him in place.

“Stiles, I find your sense of humour in moderation funny, I think the way your brain works and the knowledge it retains is fascinating and I actually enjoy talking with you. I mean have you ever heard me talk so much to anyone else? Yet with you I’m practically verbose. I find that when I’m around you I feel better and I want to be better, if that doesn’t mean I ‘give a damn’ about you I don’t know what does.”

Stiles was floored. Even Scott, before everything had gone so wrong, had never said anything like that to him.

As soon as he managed to wrap his head around the magnitude of what he’d just been given a thought started echoing around and around his head, unceasingly: _I don’t deserve this_. And he didn’t - he didn’t deserve to have such a good man (possibly the best man outside of his dad) in his life, let alone saying they cared about him.

All of the terrible tragedies that Derek had had to face in his life should have stripped away all the goodness in him and hardened him to others suffering, until he was another Peter, but instead he had remained stupidly self-sacrificing, loyal, and kind-hearted (beneath the scowling exterior).

He’d reached out to Scott (in admittedly not the best way) even though he hadn’t needed to waste his time on a stubborn new wolf when they’d first met. Scott had told Stiles about what happened after he’d escaped the house on his first full moon, how the hunters had captured him, and how Derek, even though he should have been deep in the Preserve grieving his first moon without Laura, had rescued him.

When Derek had been an alpha and had expanded his pack he’d gone for those most in need of help, not maliciously because he knew they’d be less likely refuse, but because he’d genuinely wanted to give them a better life. The devastation and guilt he carried for it not turning out the way he’d hoped for them was there for all to see every time he looked at Isaac.

When Cora had wanted to go back to her pack in South America, Derek had had the chance to go with her and live out a peaceful life with the last sane remaining member of his family. Instead he’d returned to a splintered, ungrateful pack who never showed him any appreciation for the lengths he went to for them, situated in a town that had taken practically everything from him even though he was just a handful of years older than them, leaving him totally isolated and trying to learn to live with the worst life dealt out to anyone in the pack.

There was no way such a good man could willingly want to be around Stiles for long. Maybe he thought there was more to Stiles than just the sarcasm and bitterness and know-it-all nature, but that really was all there was.

So Stiles; selfish, destructive, Allison-killer, Stiles coped in the only way he knew how – by not acknowledging it.

“I can’t read that book,” Stiles waved a hand towards where it lay. “I thought the Nogitsune hadn’t really left and that it was starting to take control again.”

Derek freed one arm and while supporting Stiles with the other one he leaned over enough to scoop the offending volume up. One handed he leafed through a few pages.

“No wonder,” he murmured, sounding relieved. “It’s all in archaic Latin. I’d heard Lydia could read it but didn’t you know?”

Stiles sagged mostly in relief but also in a little shame because he _did_ know, but had just automatically jumped to the worst conclusion the second his eyes had settled on the (to him) nonsense words. “Yeah,” Stiles tried to drawl out faux casually.

“I maybe, sorta forgot?” Derek actually let out a little groan of despair and with the fragile state Stiles was in he felt his defences rise.

“It’s not like I set out to give myself a panic attack so bad I almost stopped breathing completely,” his voice was rising in pitch and his breathing was starting to get short again.

The next thing he knew the world had gone dark and he was being pulled firmly back into the warm familiarity of Derek’s chest, the soothing smell of him and the reassuring thud of his heart grounding Stiles yet again.

“Are you seriously covering my eyes right now?”

There was a slightly embarrassed silence and Derek removed his hand.

“It worked didn’t it,” Derek grumbled defensively.

Stiles had read extensive studies on the noted effect that covering a human’s eyes could successfully calm them like it could an animal. It didn’t surprise him that it worked, but he still wasn’t sure whether he should feel bemused or somewhat flattered that Derek knew him well enough to know that something like that would sooth him, rather than freak him out like it would, for instance, Isaac.

“Fine, I’ll give you that,” Stiles tried to make himself sound begrudging, but totally unable to ignore the way a warmth blossomed in his chest, something almost completely alien to him now, and how that must have lightened his scent if the way Derek’s nostrils flared was any indication. A softly pleased look passed over his face for a second before settling back down into his more familiar neutral one.

Neither suggested moving from their entwined position on the floor and while Stiles couldn’t answer for Derek he was revelling in the now-rare feeling of safety and being around someone who he knew wouldn’t try to ask anything of him. The idea of Derek being content just to hang out with him filled him with a sense of peace he had thought himself no longer able to achieve.

Even though Stiles had just had the worst panic attack he’d ever experienced, and he knew that the second he and Derek left this safe little bubble they’d built around themselves that he’d be feeling the effects of it, just for this short, tenuous moment he felt almost back to his old self.

It turned out that Derek’s train of thoughts were centred around more practical things.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“What?”

Derek shifted a little, so he could look down into Stiles’ upturned face.

“I should have been able to hear you in the corridor outside. Actually even with the film on all of us werewolves should have been able to pick up that you were in trouble. It wasn’t until I was actually in the room that I could hear you. Why though?”

Stiles reluctantly tried to go back over what he could remember happening from the moment he picked up the book he now knew was in archaic Latin. There had been no one else in the room with him and he hadn’t noticed any strange electrical surges, odd shadows, or anything out of the ordinary other than himself, so it hadn’t seemed to have been anything external. That left what went on either beyond his grasp or an internal force instead.

Using the feel of Derek against him to stop him from getting too drawn into the memories, Stiles remembered the panic - the cold, heavy fear, the conviction that the last of his sanity was shattering, and the desperation underneath it all that if the Nogitsune was taking him again that _no one find him like this_. That must be it. He’d believed with all of his heart for his friends not to hear him, for no one to coming looking for him, which Derek hadn’t, not really, he’d mainly wanted a break from the others and had wandered into the one room in the house he was practically guaranteed to find Stiles in – the one with all the books.

“I think it might have been me,” Stiles tentatively suggested and then outlined his theory. Derek quietly listened to him, asked a couple of questions once Stiles had finished and then, to Stiles’ absolute shock, agreed with him.

“I remember you doing that thing with the mountain ash,” Derek reminded him. “You couldn’t have done that without a spark of magic inside you. It’s probably grown since you ‘woke’ it that time and tonight it must have been awakened by your belief that you could be a threat to the rest of us along with the strain you were putting your body under and reacted accordingly. You should speak to Deaton about this, it’s something that could happen again and it would be best if you could control it.”

Stiles agreed with Derek wholeheartedly and he was still having to see Deaton daily at the moment, the vet refusing to let him reduce the visits while he still kept on turning up with fresh wounds even though the ones on his back were almost completely healed.

“I’ll talk to him about it when I next see him,” he found himself promising and Derek hummed a pleased response.

“D’you think that it’s still blocking us from the others?” Stiles couldn’t help asking after a while.

“Possibly, maybe if you try to reach out, internally I mean, you might be able to feel something.”

Stiles frowned a little but let his eyes slid shut anyway. Turning his thoughts inwards these days was something he tried to avoid as they inexorably ended up turning on him in the cruellest ways, but he supposed he could try for Derek.

To start with there was nothing, just the dull red of his eyelids and his mind blessedly silent. He tried to imagine his consciousness stretching out down through his body and into the floor, slipping its way along it until it reached the door and then rising to encase it, then the rest of the room.

Just as he was about to give up with a self-deprecating comment there was something that Stiles could only describe as a gentle tug on his mind. He jumped a little but stayed focused now he knew what he was looking for.

Soon he’d followed the touch until he was surrounded by a warm fuzziness, as though it was just out of focus, and it would keep slipping from his grasp, only for him to pull it back just before it vanished entirely.

He managed to make out that it was still surrounding the room and he floundered for a while before remembering that Deaton had said that magic was all about belief. Slowly then he coaxed it back, believing with all of his might that it was okay now and that it could rest again.

It came away gradually, either slipping through his consciousness like ether or sticking with a tacky resistance to the walls of the room, but eventually he’d pulled it back into him where he felt it settle into a part of him he’d never noticed before like a kitten curling up to sleep.

With a sigh, Stiles opened his eyes.

“Is it done?” Derek’s hushed voice murmured into his hair.

“Yeah, how long did it take?”

“You were under for almost two hours.”

Stiles jolted upright, or rather tried because Derek’s arms didn’t let him get very far, but it was still enough for him to turn to look at the other man in disbelief, only then cataloguing the aches in his body that always happened whenever he stayed in one position for too long.

“Two hours? You’re kidding.”

Derek quirked his impressive eyebrows.

“I assure you I’m not. I’ve heard it’s not unusual for a magic practitioner to lose sense of time when they focus in on their magic; it’s how they can do such long ceremonies, but this was the first time I’ve ever seen it.”

“Did I do anything?” Stiles couldn’t help asking, curiosity outweighing his bafflement.

“You went really still, which for you was frankly creepy, and if it wasn’t for your heartbeat and breathing I would have thought you were dead. The strangest thing though was that I could feel the magic in you; it was like your skin was humming, that’s the only way I can think to describe it, and it made your scent change.”

“Change how?”

Derek shrugged and his eyes skittered away from Stiles.

“You always smell of the chemicals from your medication, deodorant, and washing powder on top of your natural scents, but it was like the magic didn’t like them and just got rid of them until you only smelled of natural things.”

“My magic has got it in for man-made smells?” since it was his magic they were talking about it was ludicrous enough to be true. Derek just shrugged again and were the tips of his ears turning a little red?

“Wait,” Stiles narrowed his eyes suspiciously and leaned into Derek a little, who made it even more obvious he was avoiding Stiles’ eyes. “Did you like the way it made me smell?”

“It’s a werewolf thing,” Derek ground out through clenched teeth as the blush spread a little further. “Chemical smells never feel right to us. They might not always irritate us or cause us discomfort but we instinctively prefer natural smells.”

“You _do_ like the way it made me smell,” Stiles all but crowed. “Dude, you totally dig my natural scent.”

Derek still refused to look at Stiles and even went so far as releasing him (Stiles would never admit how disquietingly uncomfortable it was without Derek’s arms wrapped around him,) and jumping to his feet.

Stiles rose to his feet as well, scooping up the book and returning it to the pile by the armchair for want of something to do.

He was just turning to apologise, feeling he’d taken his teasing too far again, when the door to the study clicked open, almost making him jump out of his skin. He’d forgotten that there was a world outside of the door and it seemed Derek had too from the way he was suddenly defensively standing in front of him.

Kira’s head poked around and Derek visibly relaxed while Stiles let out a silent sigh of relief, not willing to admit how much someone opening a damn door had shaken him.

“There you two are,” Kira beamed, all warmth and welcome. “The pizza’s arrived and we’re about to start on the third film. Lydia finally caved and we’re watching Serenity.”

“But she hadn’t seen Firefly,” Stiles protested and Kira looked smug.

“I’m hoping I can get her to watch it with me after I’ve hooked her with the movie. She’ll want to know the stories behind the characters when she realises there’s more. You could get Malia into it too and we could make it a weekly thing!”

At the mention of Malia reality came rushing back, bitter and heavy.

“Maybe,” he tentatively suggested, fighting not to sag as the now familiar weight settled back in his chest. He hadn’t realised how light he’d felt until it returned.

“You go ahead, we’ll be right there.”

She nodded and with a bouncing sweep of her hair was gone.

“Stiles?”

Stiles turned to look at Derek, who had shuffled to the side while he and Kira were talking. He looked confused and more than a little worried.

“Thanks for taking care of me, big fella,” Stiles tried to say lightly but it fell flat. He wanted to stay locked up in this room with Derek, away from the real world and the hardship that was getting too heavy for him to carry. The door however beckoned, and he could hear the loud voice of the pack down the hall.

“We’d better get out there before all the pizza is gone.”

He slipped out of the room, away from Derek, while trying to remind himself that he didn’t deserve any kindness that Derek directed towards him. He should just ignore it for his sins, but he knew he was too weak, too affection-starved, not to. He would be damned though if he dragged Derek down with him.

No one greeted him when he slid back into the living room and grabbed a solitary slice of pizza from the numerous boxes on the coffee table. He settled in an out-of-the-way plush beanbag over by the wall, giving him a poor view of the television, and only managed a couple of bites of the pizza that tasted like cardboard before he put it to one side.

He saw Derek enter the room a few seconds later and the man helped himself to an entire box, still containing half a pizza, to the catcalls of a few of the others between their arguing over whether they should watch a few episodes of Firefly first.

Stiles was helpless to stop him as Derek crossed the room, ignoring the free chair, to settle on the beanbag beside him, shoulder pressing firmly against his own.

When he finally dared to look he met Derek’s calm eyes and his heart jolted in his chest. Derek’s lips twitched a little at the corners and he offered some of his pizza. In a daze Stiles accepted and noticed that this pizza tasted significantly better. He was unable to restrain himself from pushing his shoulder more firmly into Derek’s. In response Derek offered him more pizza with that tiny, almost-not-there smile again.

The others had apparently reached the agreement of watching Serenity instead of getting sucking into the episodes of Firefly as they were all getting rather tired.

As Stiles turned to watch, relishing the way the warmth from Derek lightened the weight in his chest a little, his eyes caught Malia’s. She was on the floor, learning back against one of the sofas across the room and she was completely ignoring the film in order to stare at Stiles and Derek with an unreadable expression on her face.

After a few seconds the heaviness of her gaze grew too much and Stiles slid his eyes across to the flatscreen, trying to act as though he couldn’t feel the holes she was burning in him with her stare.

She didn’t take her eyes off of them for the rest of the film.

xXx

The next day, totally without warning, Stiles completely lost his voice for four hours.

He didn’t feel sick at all beyond the vague shakiness that never left his body now, his throat wasn’t sore, and he hadn’t inhaled anything. It was simply that one minute his voice was there and the next it wasn’t.

No one but himself noticed because in that time no one spoke to him, his dad having shut himself away in his study all day with a bottle and Malia having gone out for a long hunt. He might not have even noticed himself if he hadn’t stubbed his toe when he was heading for the bathroom and had opened his mouth to swear only to have nothing come out. Instead of panicking, Stiles had tried a variety of things to test whether his voice was really gone and if he could fix it before settling down to see if it sorted itself out. He tested it every half an hour as he did his homework by trying to read a line of whatever book was in front of him.

On the four hour mark his voice came back when he was halfway through a sentence. There was no gentle fade in; one second it wasn’t there the next it was. The whole thing reeked of magic so he told Deaton about it when he went to see him later that day after Deaton had finished checking over his newest wounds and going through the now tiring ritual of asking him whether he’d talked to Scott or not, Stiles denying that he had, and then Deaton alluding to the fact that he must because he, Deaton, for some reason wasn’t allowed to or couldn’t.

Deaton had frowned and grilled him thoroughly about the experience before asking him if he’d done anything that might be explained away by magic in the past few days. Stiles haltingly told him in very vague terms about what happened at Lydia’s.

“Ah,” Deaton announced. “I did think this was coming, I just thought that I’d have more time to prepare you. Your spark has fully reawakened and you need to start some basic training with me so you don’t end up doing anything foolish.”

“Foolish like what?”

Deaton gave him a flat look.

“Like maybe not wanting to get out of bed and go to school one Monday morning, so instead wishing that the school had burnt down. Maybe picturing it in your mind perhaps. Then you get to school only to find that it really has burnt down. That sort of foolish.”

“I could do that?” Stiles breathed, not half tempted.

Deaton gave a sigh before vanishing from the room for a few minutes and returning with a book.

“Yes, Stiles, you could. Which is why you need to be properly trained. You could unintentionally harm a lot of people. We’ll start with this.”

The book was thrust into Stiles’ hands and he read the title before groaning.

“The Complete Encyclopaedia of European Herbs, A – C. Seriously?”

Deaton’s steely gaze was all the answer he needed.

xXx

It quickly became apparent to Stiles that Derek had succeeded in talking to Scott about the pack bonds. The main reason behind that was that Scott was spending every spare moment with Derek.

It had started when Stiles had dropped by Derek’s loft after school a few days after the movie night at Lydia’s, so he could do his homework without Malia bothering him.

He’d failed to see Scott’s bike anywhere around the building otherwise he wouldn’t have gone up, but instead he’d walked in on a frustrated Scott and a stern Derek. Both were seated on the couch, Scott lolling back against it while Derek leaned forward, slightly turned towards him. Scott had the crumpled frown on his face that he always wore when he was struggling to grasp something. Both looked up, startled, when Stiles pushed open the door.

“Stiles?” Scott looked puzzled. “Dude, I didn’t even notice you coming up. Why are you here? Is something wrong?”

“Oh,” Stiles fumbled for the words, feeling exposed under his friends eyes. “I was, er, going to do my homework here. I keep getting preoccupied at home.”

“It should be fine if you-” Derek began, but then Scott jumped in.

“If it’s not essential would you mind if you left? Derek’s trying to teach me this crazy hard thing that’s really important and should help the pack a lot. Sorry man, but you understand, right?”

For one wild moment Stiles wanted to say that no, it wasn’t alright; that spending time with Derek was currently the only good thing in his life and he wanted to cling to that with all his might. But then Stiles took in the worn face of his best friend, and how the past few months had aged him almost beyond recognition.

“Yeah, sure, it’s cool. I’ll just-” he gestured at the open door behind him in a helpless way as he started to back towards it. Derek half rose, a concerned look on his face and Stiles almost crumpled at the sight of it, but he held on, he had to. The packs wellbeing came before his own.

He managed to hold on as he closed the door with a brittle smile, headed down the stairs and back out into the cool spring air. He walked down the street to where he’d parked the jeep, climbed in, started it up and drove away.

Only when he was absolutely certain that he was out of werewolf hearing range did he pull the car over on a deserted stretch of road and then, quietly, he fell apart.

xXx

In the weeks that followed, Scott continued to take up the majority of Derek’s free time and Stiles was reduced to reverting back to only going over very late at night when things with Malia got too much for him.

The down side to this was that whatever Derek was teaching Scott seemed to be very physically and emotionally taxing on the both of them and Stiles had turned up to find them both crashed out on the sofa more than once, leaving Stiles to try to slip out again as quietly as possible. The majority of the rest of times Scott wasn’t there, Derek would be asleep in his room, making the few times Stiles would arrive to find Derek still up a rare treasure.

Derek had made it clear that Stiles was always welcome at the loft, day or night, empty or otherwise, but Stiles still felt guilty having to lean on Derek so much when he was exhausting himself helping Scott.

Malia was getting worse, in that she had often been in a good mood around him before and was oblivious to how unhappy he was; now however she was almost constantly in a bad mood and that was reflecting back into her treatment of Stiles, making Stiles want to hide behind Derek’s warm safety even more.

He’d turn up at the loft knowing he smelled of sex and blood and tears, only to find Scott snoring away or a closed bedroom door, and he hated himself for resenting Scott for it.

Scott himself did seem to be doing a little better; at school he had Liam to focus on, and even Stiles, who was rarely around Scott anymore, could see how the both of them were blossoming as the relationship built in strength.

The rest of the pack too seemed to be responding well to whatever Derek was teaching Scott, while Stiles was stuck in his steady downward spiral. He’d started to wonder if Scott no longer saw him as pack at all with the visible leaps and bounds the others were improving, while he felt nothing.

After school Scott would either head straight to Derek’s or Deaton’s, even when he didn’t have to work so he could grill the vet about pack bonds. It was another thing Stiles was trying not to resent Scott for, because it meant that he’d have to somehow wrap his mandatory check-up and basic magic training that Deaton had started him on after the movie night around that, which meant that he usually wasn’t home for dinner. This was making his dad ask some rather pointed questions while Malia would glare at him across the table when he did arrive in time and would make him pay for it later.

Deaton was also stepping up on the pressure of making him tell someone about what Malia was doing. The vet was obviously growing more and more frustrated every time Stiles turned up with a new bruise and/or wound to the check-ups, which in turn was making Stiles feel as though he was being backed into a corner.

Peter remained suspiciously absent, although every now and again he’d receive an email from him with only the words ‘ _still alive?_ ’ within.

So what with everything Stiles was unsurprised to find that, outside of the few rare times he got to spend with Derek, he stopped enjoying anything. He no longer looked at the stars; he no longer played video games or listened to music or researched interesting topics online. He no longer swung by his favourite coffee shop and he no longer tried to engage his dad in conversation about his cases.

Admittedly, those things had been gradually decreasing anyway, and he wouldn’t have really called them things he enjoyed anymore since such a positive emotion had long seemed out of reach for him, but they had given him a small sense of peace.

When he realised that he’d stopped doing them entirely he didn’t have it in him to care anymore.

On the days where he didn’t have to go to school he’d just stay in bed, only bothering to get up to use the bathroom and to grab something to drink unless Malia physically dragged him out (which she had done several times.)

He stopped going to Deaton’s even though he knew the vet would be angry with him, he stopped doing his homework, he stopped almost everything.

He tried to avoid sleeping as best as he could because the nightmares had somehow become even worse and when he woke after a particularly bad one, one night, his mouth was full of blood. It took him a while to realise that he’d somehow managed to train himself not to scream, even if it meant biting his tongue, so he wouldn’t disturb Malia and face her anger for waking her.

His whole life had been narrowed down to what did and did not please Malia, and his visits to Derek’s loft grew even more infrequent.

When she’d snapped at him that he smelled of other people too much, including the pack, and had ordered him to avoid others he hadn’t even protested.

He stopped meeting the others for lunch, he’d wait to be the last to leave the classroom, he always skipped out on P.E, and he would always go straight home and to his room at the end of the day. He stopped talking to people at all unless a teacher called on him and only hung out with Malia.

When she’d almost ripped off the head of a girl who had only been trying to ask him about their economics notes he’d realised that distancing himself from others was just as much to keep them safe as it was to pacify Malia.

She’d stopped going back to her father’s, her ever-growing need to know where Stiles was at all times overriding everything else.

The others in the pack had been quick to give up trying to approach him when he’d always do an about face if he ever saw them heading towards him. Only Lydia seemed truly irritated by it and Kira would send him the odd, sad look, but other than that it was shamefully easy for him to cut himself almost completely out of their lives.

And still Malia wasn’t happy.

She started making casual threats to him about how easy it would be for her to hurt his father every time she thought he was acting out. Stiles didn’t want to find out if any of those threats were real.

One day when he returned late from school because he’d had to return some long overdue books to the library he’d found that Malia had torn down every poster and picture on his wall, leaving it barren apart from a few nails and torn poster corners, and had burned them in the backyard. There had been a photo of his mother among them.

She’d been so smug about it as she’d proudly crouched by the still burning pile and told him that they were all ugly. He didn’t bother trying to put anything else up.

When his dad had asked over dinner about the blank walls in Stiles’ room after the door had been left open, Malia had smiled, squeezed Stiles’ hand so hard he could feel the bones creaking, and said that the room had needed a change. The Sheriff had made a joke about how people change when they date and had seemed pleased that Malia was actively engaging him in conversation. He’d asked her if they were planning any more changes and she’s mentioned that they were thinking of getting rid of the jeep. When Stiles had opened his mouth to protest, because even if he couldn’t care about himself any longer he could still care about his mom and the jeep had been her’s, Malia had drawn their joined hands under the table and then snapped his little finger with effortless ease.

He would never know how he managed to stop himself screaming, but screaming, to Malia, was him acting out and his dad was within reach of her claws. The rest of the meal after that was a hazy recollection of intense pain, trying to stem the urge to wail and vomit, and Malia’s smiling face as she’d talked with his dad.

Afterwards he’d had to realign the finger and fashion a splint for it. Unsurprisingly he’d passed out several times and the last time he’d come around to find Malia crouching in front of him, finishing the wrapping on the splint. Bewildered Stiles had asked her why she’d broken his finger and she’d explained that it was punishment, because he was always jumping into his jeep to go and see Derek.

“You keep picking him over me,” she’d said as she’d run her fingers softly over Stiles’ hand, making him want to flinch away from her. “That’s not what mates do. We always put each other first. Maybe if I got pregnant you’d be more loyal, then we could go somewhere, just you, me, and our child, where no one would ever bother us. I think we should do that, but,” she continued, digging her nails into Stiles’ hand and leaning forward, her voice dropping menacingly. “In the meantime if you see Derek again I’ll start breaking your father’s fingers instead. Or maybe I should just move onto his neck instead.”

She’d released him and stood, leaving Stiles gaping up at her in appalled shock, not wanting to believe what she’d just said as a dark, repressed fear reared its head.

The one thing he was more afraid of than anything else was losing his remaining parent and from the smirk on her face Malia now knew that.

“So glad you understand me,” she’d said and then the bathroom was empty apart from himself.

He stopped going to Derek’s.

She still wasn’t happy and continued to lash out at him for the slightest thing.

He knew it was just a matter of time before she killed him and he hoped she did it soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like there are a lot of mistakes in this one, but I'm too tired to go over it again right now TT_TT sorry.


	8. Than a Fading Star

Stiles heard it when he was cutting across the lawn behind the lacrosse bleachers, following a large gaggle of students but far enough away from them that Malia, who had gone to get her lunch from her locker, wouldn’t get angry with him turning up covered in their scents.

He’d forgotten that the pack had taken to eating their lunches on the bleachers as most people didn’t hang around there.

“Wait,” Lydia’s voice came through slightly muffled under the chatter of the students in front of him. “You’re telling me that Derek can now turn into an _actual_ wolf?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but he can! It’s so cool to see. He’s massive and is completely black, and when his eyes glow blue it looks so kickass,” came Scott’s excited voice.

“Will you be able to do it?” asked Isaac.

There was a slightly sour grunt.

“Derek told me probably not; it’s apparently a hereditary thing. His mom could do it.”

“That sucks man.”

“Yeah, it does a bit, but seriously you guys have got to see Derek do it. It’s so awesome! We just need to remember to have some clothes on standby for him.”

There was a choking noise.

“Wait, I’m sorry,” and that was Mason. “We get to see a _naked_ Derek Hale?”

“I’m in,” came Danny’s voice.

“Me too,” said Lydia primly.

“Me three!” Kira piped up, then, “sorry, Scott, but I have eyes.”

There was the sounds of a slight scuffle and then Kira let out a shrike of laughter.

“What I’d like to know is why could he only manage this now?” Lydia asked, and Stiles didn’t even bother trying to pretend he wasn’t blatantly listening in and stopped walking.

“That might be partially my fault,” Scott volunteered, sounding more than a little guilty. “When it was just him and Laura he told me that they’d both been too angry and heartbroken to make peace with their wolves. Then after everything when he finally settled into our pack I screwed up on the pack bonds and ended up hurting everyone. Since I’ve been able to manage them more, Derek said he was able to reach a place of acceptance with his wolf that he hadn’t managed before and the bonus from that seems to be him suddenly being able to go full-on furry. At the moment he can only do it around the full moon, but he reckons that when he’s practiced more he’ll be able to do it anytime.”

“So cool,” Kira whispered in awe.

Stiles didn’t stick around to hear any more as another wave of students swarmed around him. Some of them brushed up against him, meaning that Malia would be unhappy, but at that moment he couldn’t bring himself to care as his thoughts spun around Derek.

The idea of Derek being able to achieve something so amazing made him want to rush over to the loft, congratulate him and then demand to see it. Derek would probably be annoyingly smug, constantly doing that half smirk that meant he was dementedly giggling away in his head.

A fierce ache that almost made his feet give way ran through him and god, but he wanted to see Derek so badly. He’d been the only good thing in the end and now he couldn’t even text him without risking Malia blowing up at him.

If what Scott was saying was right then Derek had managed to transform around the last full moon, which had been a while ago and also when they were still (sort of) in contact with each other by way of the odd text. Why hadn’t Derek told him then? It was such a huge thing that Stiles would have thought that he’d mention it. When had their last texts to each other been?

Stiles fumbled out his phone with his left hand, silently cursing not being able to use his right, then pulled up his text history. For the past three and a half weeks the only texts he’d exchanged had been with Malia and a few with his dad. There were daily ones from Deaton as well but he never responded.

He spotted Derek’s name and selected it, then the conversation popped up. The last texts to each other had been Derek asking him how he was and whether he’d be interested in popping by the loft later as he had something to show him. Stiles had responded with two words: ‘ _I’m busy_ ,’ and that was it, no more texts. He felt sick.

He cut into a disabled bathroom he was walking past and slid down to the tiles with his back against the door.

He wanted to say that it wasn’t fair that Derek had had that breakthrough without him there to help him, or that Scott had been the first to learn about it, or that he had to find out about it by overhearing his friends who he wasn’t allowed near anymore, even though it looked like Derek had been trying to tell him before Malia’s ultimatum had come into effect. He didn’t however deserve to think like that. He deserved what he was getting; he deserved to be cut off from the people he loved, he deserved every hit and kick Malia aimed at him, he deserved everything that was happening to him for Allison, for everyone he had hurt and killed. He could name them all - he’d stolen their names from his dad’s files and they had been depressingly easy to memorise. He’d repeat them to himself with the same unconscious repetition that he’d use when he’d count his shaking fingers when he was stressed, which was pretty much all the time now.

He realised that he was muttering them to himself as he tried to fight off what would be the third panic attack of the day. Malia would be waiting for him in their usual place, getting more and more irritated. She still didn’t understand panic attacks when he’d tried to explain them to her once and so she saw them as no excuse.

After a while he thought he’d got himself under enough control to get up. Maybe if he hurried she wouldn’t be too mad.

He pushed himself to his feet, hissing as he put too much weight on his splinted finger and then he was suddenly blinking at the far wall, trying to figure out what had just happened.

He was sprawled in an uncomfortable position across the floor, his cheek pressed firmly against the cold tile, one arm tucked at a painful angle under him (thankfully not the one with the broken finger). As he lifted his head his cheek remained stuck to the floor for one uncomfortably long moment before peeling away. The ground around his face was covered in tacky blood.

When he pushed himself upright the room spun alarmingly and he only just managed to lurch on his knees over to the toilet in time to empty what was in his stomach, which turned out to be nothing more than bile.

He couldn’t help the sobs escaping him between the gags as he desperately wanted it all to just _stop_. He was so tired of aching, and hurting, and feeling as though there was a hole in his chest sucking all the good feelings out of him. He was tired of always feeling cold, of not being able to stop his shaking hands or the way he’d bite his nails until they bleed. He was sick of barely being able to keep food down even though he knew he was literally wasting away because of it, and the constant barrage of panic attacks that assailed him every day while his nights were tormented by nightmares. But most of all he was sick of Malia. Malia who he was more scared of than hated; especially now she kept on throwing out casual threats against his father.

Stiles finally had nothing more to vomit and he dry heaved several times before he managed to push himself up enough to flush the toilet, which helped.

It took him ten more minutes to find the energy to get to his feet and stagger over to the mirror.

As he gazed at his haggard face, half covered in the dried blood that must have streamed from his nose, the bell went off. He’d been unconscious on a bathroom floor for the majority of lunch and Malia was going to be _pissed_ when she got her hands on him.

Trying not to let his thoughts linger on what exactly she would do he washed himself up as best as possible, but his (thankfully somewhat dark) t-shirt was ruined. There was no way it would go un-noticed if he turned up late for class with a blood stained top, but he couldn’t go home either because he dad would be there after pulling an all-nighter.

As he tried to figure out what to do he tried the best he could to clean up the bathroom as well. The way his head lurched and pounded alarmingly when he bent to take care of the rather sizable puddle of dried blood on the floor had him shooting back upright, then clutching at his head again as the sudden move made agony lance through his skull. He’d have to leave it for the janitor to find and wondered if he should leave a note of apology.

Dismissing the idea he settled on the only place he could currently go to and left the bathroom as quietly as he could.

He kept his head down as he walked through the halls, trying to remain invisible to the students who had a free period but blend in with them at the same time. He had to take a roundabout route to navigate around the hallways and spots in the school that dragged him into a flashback and if anyone had been following, it would have looked more than a little strange.

Stiles slipped into the library like a ghost and managed to find a deserted corner in the stacks that few people rarely went to. There he did his best to get comfortable and within twenty minutes was falling asleep, relying on his new skill to keep quiet during his nightmares to not draw any attention.

He woke feeling as through he’d been turned inside out and then dragged over sharp rocks when the final bell of the day rang.

There was two texts from Deaton on his phone, the first asking him to come by again as per usual, the second though showed that Deaton had reached the end of his patience; saying that he could guess why Stiles was avoiding visiting and that the situation was now at the point where if he didn’t tell Scott or his dad what was going on in the next few days then Deaton, despite the consequences, would be doing it.

So that was it then, he finally had to tell someone.

xXx

Although Stiles’ dad, along with the rest of the pack, had shown gradual and erratic improvement since Scott started working with Derek, the relationship between him and Stiles had soured further.

Stiles knew it was due to a tiring mix of reasons, the first being that his dad had figured out that he was keeping another big secret from him, but with how short-staffed the sheriff’s department was he’d never been able to stick around long enough to investigate it further. That led neatly to the next reason in that whenever he could start to question Stiles about it, Stiles completely shut him out, going so far as to leave the house several times. Another was that the Sheriff was struggling with his own depression, which Stiles hadn’t seen this bad since his mom died, probably due to the combined effort of still trying to wrap his head around a world that his was sorely unprepared for, being show just how weak he was in it when he had always relied on being the ‘protector’, as well as the detrimental effect of having to go ‘dirty cop’ to protect Stiles had had on his psyche. The one that got to Stiles the most though was that his dad, to cope with his depression and frustration, had taken up drinking again in a way that Stiles didn’t have the strength to combat. All he could do was watch the empty bottles pile up in the recycling like they hadn’t done in years and it was all his fault.

Even without the majority of those problems in all likelihood he still wouldn’t figure it out. Parents rarely saw what was really wrong with their children not through a lack of care, but rather too much. They never wanted to see their child with a truly serious problem, so usually dismissed any signs as something less concerning: teenage angst, stress about exams or dating, and so on.

When Stiles returned home that afternoon his dad was in his uniform at the dinner table, finishing off some paperwork before heading in to cover an evening shift. There was a half empty glass of scotch beside the papers but thankfully no bottle in sight.

“Ah, Stiles,” John sent him a tight smile, the bags under his eyes prominent in the light. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Hey, Malia, how was school?”

Stiles didn’t have it in him to be surprised by the sudden appearance of Malia just behind him, the warmth of her almost burning into him.

“It’s been an annoying day, I’ll have to take out my frustrations on something later,” Malia bared her teeth in the approximation of a smile before heading up the stairs.

Faint wisps of dread over what he knew she would do to him had Stiles staring pleadingly at his dad, hoping that he wouldn’t have to open his mouth and say the words that were weighting down his tongue. Hoping that for once his dad would _be a cop_ and not his dad and figure out that she wasn’t joking around. But like all the other times John never did and let out a slightly listless chuckle.

“Try to make sure the house is still in one piece after!” he called, and Malia responded with a distant “okay!”

When John turned his face back to Stiles all traces of humour had left it.

“Sit down, son. We need to talk.”

Stiles sat, automatically keeping his splinted finger out of sight, while believing with everything that was left inside him (which admittedly was barely anything,) for Malia not to be able to hear the conversation they were about to have because he didn’t know if his dad had the wolfsbane bullets Chris had apparently given him on him.

He’d learned just enough before he’d stopped going to Deaton to be able to feel his magic a little now when he reached for it; most of the time it was this tiny, warm, thrumming thing that reminded him of humming birds. He still couldn’t bring it into focus though, and sometimes when he tried to grasp it, it slipped through his fingers like water.

This time though he felt it respond to the desperation of his belief and it expanded until it burst out of him and grew to fit the room. He sagged a little, exhausted but knowing that Malia wouldn’t be able to hear them now.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you too, dad.”

“Well, I’m not surprised there; we’ve needed to do this for a while.”

Stiles sat up again, both apprehensive desperation and mortification giving him some much-needed energy.

“So you know, as in you know you _know_ what I need to talk to you about?”

John sent him an odd look and started to slide his paperwork back into the appropriate files.

“Sure, son. Of course I know.”

The desperation and mortification gave way to a bastard mix of relief, fear, and confusion.

“So why’d you wait until now?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get my day shift free tomorrow, but I’ve jostled it around with a few of the deputies and it’s all been worked out.”

The relief disappeared entirely, leaving just the fear and confusion.

“Wait, what’s happening on tomorrow? Why are we talking about tomorrow? We need to be talking about right now.”

John froze half way through closing a file and then raised his eyes to stare at Stiles as though he’d never seen him before.

“What do you think we’re talking about, Stiles? It’s your mom’s anniversary of course.”

Stiles reeled back in his chair as though he’d been hit.

Never in all the years she’d been gone had he ever forgotten the anniversary of his mom’s death. He’d usually be fretting about it more than a month in advance, trying to decide what flowers he’d bring her, psyching up for the inevitability of his dad getting black-out drunk that night and then stealing the remainder of the bottle to do likewise (the day after being the only time of the year his dad never ripped him a new one for having a blatant hangover.)

How could he have forgotten?

If this didn’t prove that he’d always be a fuck up he didn’t know what did as his dad’s face moved from confusion, to anger, to intense disappointment.

“You’re really telling me that you _forgot_ about the day your mom died?”

“I-” Stiles tried to shakily begin, but John was standing.

“You know what,” he said tiredly. “I don’t have it in me right now to listen to any more of your excuses. I don’t know what the hell’s been going on with you lately, but I don’t like it. You won’t talk to me and there’s no one else you can really talk to about what happened with Allison, so if this is some sort of issue that’s stemming from that then I’ve tried to give you a chance, I really have, but you won’t give me anything back. I’m done, Stiles,” he sagged a little, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “And now I’m leaving so I won’t be late for work.”

John was almost out of the door before Stiles managed to find his voice.

“Dad, wait. Please I really need to tal-”

“I said I’m done for now, Stiles. Maybe I’ll be able to try again after your mother’s anniversary, but right now I can’t even look at you. Do what you will on her day, but you’re not doing it with me.”

And then he was gone, the sound of the front door echoing loudly through the ringing silence.

Stiles hadn’t thought it was possible for him to get any lower, but the sucking desolation making every bone ache and taking every drop of energy in him proved him wrong.

He didn’t have anything left anymore to keep up the barrier of magic and he felt it buckling, before splintering away into nothing.

Wordlessly he reached out and scooped up the still half full glass of scotch, downing it in a couple of large gulps. It should have burned, but he didn’t feel much of anything.

Stiles couldn’t say how long he spent sitting in that chair, staring at the empty chair his dad had been in, but when Malia pulled his chair around he found that evening had well and truly drawn in.

Time had stopped for him inside, so there was little point in marking the passing of it anymore.

“Get upstairs,” Malia ordered.

Mechanically he rose to his feet and headed for the stairs. It didn’t matter what she did to him.

xXx

Stiles thought his left arm might be fractured, which was very annoying combined with a broken finger on the right hand. Maybe a couple of ribs were gone too and there was definitely something wrong with his ankle.

Malia shifted in her sleep beside him.

Even though he could tell he was in a lot of pain it was somehow distant. Maybe it was the adrenalin, but that should have long worn off by now since it had been a couple of hours since the injuries had happened.

Everything just felt so far away that it was like he was watching somebody else’s life through their eyes.

Perhaps that had something to do with why he climbed stiffly out of bed, pausing only to grab his keys, not bothering to change and leaving the bedroom door wide open.

He switched off for a while and when he came back he was limping his way towards Derek’s loft door. It was a hell of a struggle to get it open with only one half good arm, as well as not being able to bend or put his weight completely on one ankle.

Derek looked up from his book when Stiles entered and there was a detached sense of déjà vu.

“Stiles,” Derek stated blankly.

“Derek,” his voice echoed weirdly in his skull.

“Why are you here?”

Stiles remained standing in the doorway, distantly aware he was standing oddly still and staring at a spot just over Derek’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure.”

“Really, because you haven’t been here in weeks. Over a month actually. You haven’t even texted me apart for that one time.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

Derek quirked an eyebrow, but it wasn’t in a teasing way. It was easy to see how he was becoming more and more defensive.

He shut the book with a snap, set it on the table and hooked his hands between his knees while giving Stiles a distinctly unimpressed look.

“Are you though? Because you sure as hell don’t sound it.”

“Sorry,” Stiles said again. It was all he felt he was justified to say; just that word for the rest of his life.

Derek pushed himself to his feet and wandered in his faux casual way over to the window and stared out.

“You know if you didn’t want me dumping all that stuff on you, you could have just said instead of avoiding me like the plague.”

“What? Derek-” but Derek interrupted.

“Look, I realise now that I was putting a lot on your shoulders. I mean I’m the grumpy, barely-ever-talks guy and then I’m suddenly chatting away to you, dumping all this shit on your shoulders. I get it, I mean it would throw me,” he turned back to look at Stiles, vulnerability painted across his face in a way Stiles would have missed months before.

“I’m not a nice person,” Derek continued. “I don’t trust easily and the only person I was open with for years was Laura. Since I lost her I lost that part of me too. I couldn’t talk to Peter, Scott, or my beta’s for obvious reasons. I didn’t trust Allison or Lydia and the majority of people in this town still think I’m a criminal. Even though I knew you were dealing with your own problems I guess when I realised that I could talk to you I got carried away and I’m sorry for that. I suppose I thought that it might take you out of your own head for a while and maybe help you focus on something else. I can see I was wrong now, but you’re the one who instead of facing me like an adult and telling me it was too much, ran away like a child.”

“Sorry,” Stiles repeated. If he said anything else he would only make it worse.

“That’s really all you’re going to say?” Derek stalked across the floor to him, anger starting to cloud his features. “No explanation, not even an attempted white lie? Just ‘sorry’ over and over again like a robot?”

“Sorry,” Stiles whispered, his voice cracking. He’d ruined it. He’d ruined what had probably become the most important relationship in his life outside of his dad, just like he ruined everything.

Derek halted in front of him and just stared intensely at him for several long moments.

“Stiles, please. I know that things have been hard for you but I told you these things so that you might feel that you could talk to me too. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

An overwhelming sense of wretchedness forced the words back down into Stiles’ chest.

What good would come out of telling Derek now when he was just another name on the older man’s list of people who had betrayed him? He would just bring even more suffering into his life: another battle that he might not walk away from, and more splintering to his already broken family. But Derek was standing there, looking at him almost desperately, and could he do that to him? Did he deserve to have this wonderful man’s help and support after everything he’d done to him in the past, never mind what path this would put him on in the future?

The answer clawed its way up his throat, past the choking misery and self-loathing, to give Derek exactly what he deserved.

“Sorry.”

For a moment Stiles thought Derek was going to hit him and he closed his eyes in acceptance of the blow, but then there was that large, warm, safe hand again pushing gently but firmly on the centre of his chest and making Stiles take several wobbly steps backwards into the corridor.

He opened his eyes just in time to watch Derek slide the door closed.

“Goodbye, Stiles,” was the last thing he heard before the door clanged shut and Stiles was left standing in the dark hall, the spot on his chest that Derek had touched getting colder and colder, as though calling out for that warmth again. Warmth he wasn’t allowed.

He must have switched off again, because when he next became aware of where he was, he was standing in front of his house.

It should have scared him that he had no memory of driving but instead he cut across the lawn on what he only now realised was bare feet, hobbling with every step and trying to avoid moving his arm, and up onto the porch.

The door was unlocked and ajar. With Malia in the house he feared _for_ anyone who would be stupid enough to break in, but with the way his night was going it was more than likely that he was the one who had left it open.

He limped inside, automatically shutting it behind him and stumbling in the dark to the kitchen.

Pulling out a glass he set it beside the sink before forgetting all about it in favour of staring blankly out of the window.

The light flicked on and he didn’t jump.

“You went to Derek’s again after I told you not to,” came Malia’s cool voice.

“I did,” he replied, not turning to look at her. He could see his reflection in the glass now the light in the kitchen was contrasting with the darkness outside. He didn’t recognise himself. He didn’t know who that person was staring at him so vacantly from sunken eyes anymore. He didn’t want to know them.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I detest you.”

If he leaned forward a little he could just make out a light from outside that was bright enough to cut through the reflection of the room on the glass. Was it a street lamp?

“What did you say?” growled the voice behind him.

“I hate you with every ounce of my shrivelled little soul. I never even liked you back when I first met you, I thought you would be too damaged to ever be healthy and look, I was right. I only kissed you that time in the basement because I was out of my mind myself and I needed some comfort. Honestly, I don’t remember much of it,” no, it couldn’t be a street light, it was too high. “And then you were suddenly in my life, telling me I was your ‘mate’, which apparently means you get to rape and hurt me as much as you want. You do know every time we’ve had sex you’ve been raping me, right? Do you understand what that means?”

“You’re lying,” and oh, that voice didn’t really sound human anymore.

“I’m really not,” whatever it was it was pale.

“No, our problems are because you’re not trying. You’re failing me as a mate.”

Stiles leaned forward a little more, his whole body protesting and his sharp hip bones digging into the edge of the sink.

“’Our problems’ is that one of us, namely me, never wanted to be in this twisted sham of a relationship in the first place. I’m not your mate. I will never be your mate. I wouldn’t be your mate if we were the last two people on the earth. You’re sick, Malia, and I’m just as sick for letting you carry on with this for so long,” it was something important. He knew that at least.

“No, no! This is Derek poisoning you against me. If you’d have just stayed away from him like I told you to-”

Stiles snorted and briefly spared a thought as to why he wasn’t afraid of her any more but he had no answer. There was just… nothing.

“Are you hearing yourself? You’re seriously trying to blame Derek for the fact that you trapped me in this poisonous thing you call a relationship? That was all your own doing,” it was like it was right on the tip of his tongue.

There was a massive crash behind him, but he still didn’t jump, nor did he turn around.

“Derek, Derek, Derek! Do _you_ hear _yourself_? You’re obsessed with him and you were always all over him whenever you were together. I didn’t even realise that you never smelled happy until you started hanging around him. I just thought you always smelled the way you usually did with me, but then you had to shove it in my face when you’d come back giving off this stupid _warm_ scent and his smell all wrapped up together around you. You constantly stunk of him, just like you stink of him now! If I didn’t know better I’d say you were in love with him!”

Oh.

That caught Stiles off-guard.

Like a show reel memories started flickering though his head of his interactions with Derek, right from the beginning. Such as how, right from the get-go, Stiles had somehow been confident that even while Derek was clearly a dangerous unknown in a world he was only just starting to learn about, he wouldn’t truly hurt him. The snarky back-and-forth between them, yet the way they were always springing to the others defence a heartbeat later. Even when they’d been ‘enemies’ Derek had still tried to protect him, and he’d done likewise.

There were so many little moments, caught looks, and stray, comforting touches when they were neck deep in trouble.

He’d watched as the walls around Derek had started to fall, more so whenever it was just the two of them, but still enough with everyone else that Scott started to depend on Derek in a way he hadn’t before and Isaac’s trust in him had been re-ignited.

Derek had quietly blossomed into a calmer, softer, stronger person; someone who had entrusted Stiles with a sacred gift and had opened himself up to Stiles’ judgement and criticism, but all Stiles had seen was a truly marvellous man, right down to the core.

When you could get past the hard exterior, Derek Hale was a very easy man to love, and Stiles was a fool for not realising sooner.

“Stiles? Tell me you’re not in love with him.”

He said nothing, just continued to look out at the pale shape that he now realised was the full moon, which meant with the sounds Malia was making behind him that he should be panicking, or trying to get to the phone to call Scott.

Malia had found her anchor in her first full moon as a human, and had proudly announced that it had been Stiles. Scott had got a little misty eyed when she’s said it and had had to excuse himself. Stiles hadn’t said anything at the time, although he should have, because he’d known that there would come a point where she would find out that he didn’t feel anything for her like the way she did for him, and her anchor would shatter. Just like it was doing right now.

“How could you do this to me!” she roared and then Stiles was being thrown sideways.

He actually went through the thin wall that led to the dining room and that hurt something fierce. The breath was forced from him as he felt several ribs snap like twigs. When he hit the ground he was in no state of mind to try and catch his fall and if his arm wasn’t broken before it definitely was now.

Another roar behind him filled the house followed by loud tearing sounds and crashes as Malia tore the kitchen apart. All Stiles could do though was lay there, trying to pull in a breath.

There was no way Stiles was going to be able to run with the state his body was in and for a moment Stiles intended to just remain where he was until Malia finished whatever she was destroying and found him.

His mind apparently had other ideas and supplied a detailed rendition of what his dad would go through when he came back home from his shift and found his son torn apart on the dining room floor; how his dad would really drown himself at the bottom of a bottle without him there to pull him out, and how his dad would have to live with the fact that their last words were not kind.

No matter how much Stiles wanted to die, he couldn’t do that to his dad. So instead of resigning himself to his fate, a spark of the old Stilinski stubbornness grew inside him as he forced himself over onto his front… and then promptly almost threw up with his weight pressing down onto his broken ribs.

Behind him it sounded as though Malia was running out of things to destroy.

Okay, so walking, crawling, or even moving was out, so what could he do?

Magic, he could try his magic.

Just as he was reaching for it two sets of claws stabbed down into his back, breaking a couple more ribs as they tore through muscle and bone alike. Stiles felt a strange pop in his right lung and when he tried to inhale there was just a horrible sharp pain instead and a nauseating juxtaposition of being able to feel his left lung inflate normally while his right lung did not.

A strange gurgling sound left his lips, but then Malia was hooking her claws in and wrenching him around, forcing a garbled scream from him as her fingers were yanked from his back from the momentum. Then she was above him, claws sinking deeply into the flesh of his arms as she pulled him up a little so she could shake him violently back and forth.

“I wasn’t going to stay!” she was howling into his face, her humanity having come back to her enough for her to speak around the fangs in her mouth. “I _hated_ being human, but I stayed for you! This is all your fault!”

With a terrible wrench she had him on his feet but before his knees even had the chance to buckle under him her palm, with claws extended, cannoned into his solar plexus, sending him over the dining table which she promptly smashed out of the way and was on him again before he hit the floor.

She was violence personified as she tore into him and he stood no chance, but even as she threw him back towards the ruins of the kitchen a small but determined part of him was reaching out to his magic.

There was no time to drum up belief from somewhere, his consciousness was fading fast, so all he could do was latch onto it and then pour all his desperation into it in two words: ‘ _help me_.’

His head was slammed against something and he couldn’t tell what was going on anymore, just that he was in more agony then he’d ever been in before in his life. Oddly enough there still wasn’t any fear though.

Everything had become detached again, as though he’d stepped back, out of his body, and was watching everything happen to someone else. It was surreal, like a dream, and maybe it was a dream. Maybe he’d dreamed up all the insanity of werewolves, and banshee’s, and kitsune, and were-coyotes.

He watched distantly as the colour began to fade from the room as a pretty girl stepped through the ruins of a doorway. Her eyes were glowing blue, and she had blood streaked all over her, especially around her mouth where there were distinctively what could only be fangs jutting past her lips, and dripping from claws in place of nails.

The girl kicked her way through the rubble to where a body lay, so battered and blood-stained it was impossible to tell if the person was alive or dead.

The girl reached down and lifted the limp form, revealing that the limp figure was a teenage boy.

“Your fault,” she snarled and then opened her mouth wider, dropping her head down towards the boy’s neck.

She’s just started to dig her teeth into the boys oddly unmarked skin, as every other patch of him seemed to be covered in open wounds or gore, when the window above the sink shattered and a huge dark shape leapt through, tackling the girl off the boy and sending her sprawling.

The only points of colour in the room now were their eyes, both glowing a beautiful electric blue, as the girl leapt to her feet and snarled at the massive wolf standing between her and the boy.

The girl seemed incensed to see the creature, her features shifting gruesomely to become even more animalistic as she roared her fury.

“My mate!” she screamed. “ _My_ mate, not yours! My mate to kill!”

The wolf let out a snarl, so deep and loud and _angry_ that the entire room vibrated, before, in a move that was too fast to follow, it leapt, maw open and fangs gleaming.

They tore at each other, back and forth, giving each other devastating injuries that knitted back together moments later. One second the girl would be ripping into the wolf’s back, then the next the wolf would have her on the floor with its teeth in her stomach.

It was hard to tell how long they continued before the sound of a door splintering out in the hall only just made itself heard over the battle.

A middle aged man in a uniform and clutching a shotgun came barrelling into the kitchen; followed closely by a younger man dressed like him, carrying a handgun, and a teenager. Even though the teenager was last, something about the way he held himself just screamed power.

There was a terrible whining yelp from one of the battling pair, although it was anyone’s guess who, followed by a nauseating crunch and then a splatter of blood sprayed across the room.

“What the-” the older man breathed out in stunned horror before his eyes landed on the limp body of the boy amongst the wreckage of the kitchen. Sheer terror swept across his face so quickly that it was like the whole world had just been ripped away from under his feet.

“Stiles!” he screamed and then was scrambling over the rubble, headless of the battle going on only meters away. “No, no, no, no, no. Not my baby boy!”

The other uniformed man went after him, managing to pull the older one back before he could touch the still body and shouting over the noise about how they shouldn’t move him before the paramedics arrived.

The words seemed to get through to the older man as he didn’t try to grab the body again. Instead his shaking hands ran over the air inches above the boy’s torn skin again and again as he sobbed in furious helplessness.

The younger man kept one hand firmly on his shoulder while the other one had lifted to the radio at his shoulder and he was yelling frantically into it.

While this was going on the teenager, still just inside the doorway, had remained frozen, watching in owlish shock as the older man broke down over the ruined body of the boy on the floor. As the older man’s tears turned into pleas for the boy, this _Stiles_ , to hold on until the ambulance arrived the shock on the teen’s face turned into a truly terrifying anger.

His features shifted and his eyes shone, not blue like the fighting pair, but with a red that would have matched the blood splattered all over the rooms if it had all been in colour.

With a roar that put all the others to shame he was suddenly in the thick of the battle and grabbing the girl by her neck. She swiped at him and he roared again before lifting her effortlessly over his head and throwing her through the broken doorway, over the heads of the men crouched over the body, and out of the shattered window over the sink. A snarl later and he was bounding out after her, murder clear on his face.

The huge wolf went to follow, heedless of its own injuries and the chunks of flesh and fur dangling from it. It stopped only long enough to stare down at the boy’s battered form before leaping through the window as well. A long, furious howl filled the air.

By that point the whites and greys of the room had started to give way to black and the last thing to see before the blackness engulfed everything was the boy’s single barely open eye, a rich glimmer of whiskey behind the lashes, sliding shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.


	9. In This Hollow Valley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve tried to keep the medical side of things as (semi)realistic as possible, but I’m in no way a nurse or doctor so most of it is from what I found on official medical websites or based on personal experience. I’m still probably mucking it up big time though (also I frankly made up a couple of things), plus I honestly have very little idea of how the medical system works in America.

It wasn’t the constant beeping that woke Stiles; with that he just assumed he was riding into hell on a conveyer belt, where the damned souls were scanned in like a grocery item.

No, what woke Stiles was the absence of any form of pain.

Stiles had been living consistently in some form of discomfort for so long that the sheer _lack_ of it was what pulled him up from the comforting nothing of unconsciousness. He’d wanted to conclude that it must mean he was dead, but given the whole ‘if there is an afterlife I’m going straight to hell’ mentality he instead assumed that he must be on a boatload of drugs.

He wasn’t wrong.

The light wasn’t too painful when he opened his eyes since it was night and the only thing illuminating the room was a small lamp in the corner.

From what he could see of the room either Melissa or his dad, or the both of them together, had used their impressive influence to get him one of the nicer private rooms in what had to be the Beacon Hills hospital.

There were a couple of chairs beside his bed, both empty, and he didn’t know why that made his chest tighten. There was pretty strict visiting hours at the hospital, he reasoned, never mind the fact that Melissa had circumnavigated them around them time and time again. Who was he kidding though? After everything he’d done was it any surprise that no one wanted to check up on him?

To distract himself from spiralling into that bleak train of thought he tried to go back over what had got him _into_ the hospital in the first place. He knew Malia had done this to him, but after she’d thrown him into the dining room (through the wall) his memory became more than a little fuzzy; just a few vague flashes of somehow being in the kitchen again and then a freaking massive black wolf? What was a wolf doing in his kitchen?

Frowning and leaving the potentially very unreliable memories be Stiles decided that it was past time for him to try a sit up a little. The head of the bed was already slightly raised so it shouldn’t take too much more to get him partially upright. He hated lying flat in hospital beds - it made him feel horribly exposed and vulnerable.

First he did a quick check over himself: his left ankle and left arm was in a cast, the one on his arm extending down to just below his elbow, no surprise there, but the weird metal splint type thing that covered his forearm and was attached to a metal band around his wrist was rather strange. Thick bandages covered most of his right arm, and what he could see of his chest before it was covered by the hospital gown was also covered in the same white strips. Given what little he could see of his skin, which was covered in impressive shades of black and purple, he had no wish to find out how much further the damage went under the blanket for the time being. Even his broken finger now had a much more professional splint on it, binding it to the one next to it. There were also all manner of machines attached to him so he’d have to be careful with those, but he didn’t hold out much hope given his built-in ineptitude.

Stiles took a deep breath to ready himself in sitting up and wow if that didn’t feel weird. It wasn’t really painful, but there was a distinctively unpleasant sensation in his right lung every time he inhaled. After a few more tentative breaths Stiles decided that it didn’t feel bad enough to keep him from his objective, but just in case he’d hold his breath while he did it.

If someone had been there to ask him Stiles wouldn’t have been able to explain why it was so important for him to sit up right at that moment when he was so obviously suffering from serious injuries. It might have had something to do with the fact that he was still half expecting Malia to come tearing through the door to complete what she’d started any second, or the fact that the thought of facing anyone, of showing them how low he’d fallen and that he’d _let_ it happen was too much for him to bear, or the fact that he just wanted to be done with everything; to just quietly slip away and vanish, or maybe it was just the drugs impairing his sense of reasoning.

Whatever it was, Stiles carefully slotted his good hand into the curve of the mattress and tried to use his abs to pull himself up.

He barely shifted before his body exploded with pain and the heart rate monitor went mad.

Over the sound of the roaring in his ears, Stiles didn’t hear the distant shout and the sound of several sets of pounding feet in the corridor outside. The door burst open and Scott, Derek, John, and Melissa all fell into the room followed closely by a harried looking doctor and several nurses.

The doctor started barking out orders that Melissa and the others nurses scrambled to comply while the remaining three hovered uncertainly in the corner of the room, eyes fixed on Stiles’ shaking figure.

In no time at all they’d managed to get Stiles settled, had raised the upper half of the bed a little more and placed the controls within grabbing distance of his good hand, and had given him something to help with the pain. The doctor checked him over one last time, muttering about a concussion and asking him the standard questions: ‘what’s your name?’ ‘where do you live?’ ‘what year is it?’ and so on. When they eventually vacated the room they left four very tense pack members. Stiles was tempted to call them back.

“Hi?” he hazarded, raising his right hand to fiddle with the oxygen tube at his nose, which made him feel like it was constantly being lightly tickled.

They stared at him and Stiles did his best not to squirm under their heavy gazes because that would just lead to a whole world of agony again.

“Oh, Stiles,” Melissa whispered in that sad way of hers that had always cut Stiles right to the core. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

There was a familiar ache in his eyes and god, he had cried enough to last a lifetime in these past few months, so he blinked hard and resolutely looked away.

“Can we not do this now?” he said thickly. “I promise, you can yell at me and be as angry as you want with me tomorrow, but can we please not do this right now?”

“Angry with you?” his dad’s voice almost brought his head back around but he resisted. “Why would we be angry with you?”

Maybe if Stiles did move again the pain would be so much he’d just pass out and not have to ever fact this.

“Stiles,” oh great, now Scott was chipping in. “We’re not angry with you, I promise. We just wanted to know why you didn’t tell us. We would have helped you right away.”

“But you did try to tell me, didn’t you,” his dad’s voice broke in and now Stiles couldn’t bring himself to look because he knew that heavy tone; the one that screamed that his dad would be reaching for a whisky bottle as soon as he could find one, adding another deep, miserable line to his face. “That’s what you were trying to tell me when I got so angry with you, and I-I didn’t listen when my son needed me most,” his voice broke over the last few words and there was a gentle shushing from Melissa.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” was all Stiles could bring himself to whisper and he shut out any more of the pleas they directed at him until Melissa herded them all out, Scott promising he’d be back in the morning and his dad looking as though he was about to collapse.

“Try and get some sleep,” Melissa said softly, just before she closed the door.

It was only after they’d gone that Stiles realised that Derek hadn’t spoken a word.

xXx

After a night of intense nightmares of Malia creeping into the room to finish the job that had him jerking awake every hour, Stiles was in no mood for Scott, who turned up first thing as promised with Isaac, Lydia, Kira, and Danny in tow. (Apparently they hadn’t brought Liam and Mason because they ‘didn’t want to overwhelm him’, as if he wasn’t already.)

They brought balloons, flowers, and get well soon cards that Stiles didn’t read.

Given how Stiles had closed up the night before, Scott tried to stay on safer subjects, but couldn’t help bringing in the fact that Stiles had been unconscious for almost an entire day, making it the weekend.

All Stiles could think of after that was that he’d entirely missed his mom’s anniversary.

Danny and Kira had been at a loss as to what to say, neither of them ever having to deal with such a situation with someone they knew so well before.

Lydia had remained in frigid silence for the most part, sitting bolt upright in her seat as she went over Stiles’ chart over and over again, apparently determined to burn every little detail into her memory.

Isaac was a mess, the situation hitting home much more for him than anyone else and he was beating himself to hell and back for not realising was had been going on. He’d remain quite for a long while as Scott tried to fill the room with empty chatter, then would bulldoze over whatever Scott was saying with a frantic apology before laying into himself and having to excuse himself to cool off in the bathroom for a few minutes. Then he’d come back and the whole process would start again.

Stiles didn’t say a word for the entire time they were there and eventually their excuses and apologies started to slip out. There were so many of them and if he looked at it logically and the situation was reversed he probably would have been spouting a few of them himself: they’d thought that Stiles had withdrawn because he had been depressed about the Nogitsune and Allison and hadn’t wanted to push him on it since he’d gone out of his way to avoid them. They’d thought that having Malia to focus on would be good for him, and sure Malia had been… difficult but she’d always seemed so happy when she was with him that they’d never thought she’d be doing something so dreadful. They‘d thought that Stiles might be angry with them because he always smelled so when he saw them. They’d thought Stiles had wanted to leave the pack. Mostly though they’d admitted to never even having considered that Malia would be hurting him, never mind the fact that she was a half-feral were-coyote and much stronger than him, simply because she was a girl and he was a boy. It was humiliating.

After a couple of tense hours, with nurses continually popping in and out to check on him, Parrish showed up in uniform and the others filed out with well wishes and promises to return tomorrow.

Parrish was a small mercy because he didn’t try to press Stiles to talk, nor talk himself, although Stiles did catch him staring guiltily at him a few times. He simply seated himself in a position that granted him a clear view of the door and window and unclipped his gun.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out why, and that, of all things, made Stiles speak.

“So I take it Malia got away.”

Parrish actually jumped and stared wide-eyed at Stiles for a moment before giving a slight nod.

“Scott and Derek chased her deep into the preserve but she managed to lose them at a river. We’ve got an APB out on her but nothing yet.”

“I doubt you’ll get anything, she knows the preserve better than anyone.”

There was a long pause.

“We’re not going to let her near you again, Stiles.”

Stiles tried to chuckle, but it hurt so much and left him so breathless it ended up a slightly embarrassing choked-off moan. Parrish was up out of his seat and actually looking panicked in an instant.

“Do you need me to call Melissa? Are you choking? What can I do to help?”

Stiles waved his good hand half-heartedly as he tried to stop his wheezing enough to speak.

“No, no, I’m fine. Could do with some water though.”

Parrish moved almost as fast as one of the wolves and had a cup of cool water, complete with vibrant yellow straw, lifted to his face in seconds. Stiles sipped and soothed the irritation in his throat, then let out a sigh as he slumped back.

“I was going to say that unless you guys guard me twenty-four seven, or unless I live in a ring of mountain ash for the rest of my life, there’s little chance of you being able to keep her away. She thought I was her mate, that’s not something she’s going to forget.”

“She was abusing you, Stiles, and from what the doctor says the scars on your body indicate she’s been doing it for a long time. I think even she at some level must have realised that what she was doing to you was wrong. Maybe this was the wake-up call she needed, maybe she won’t come back or she’ll turn herself in.”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles said and then didn’t say anything else for the rest of Parrish’s stay.

As the afternoon drew to a close his dad, in civilian clothes, appeared in the doorway with two women in white coats behind him.

“Stiles,” John sounded as though he’d been gargling rocks all day and looked like he hadn’t slept a week. “How are you feeling, son?”

Stiles couldn’t bring himself to say anything. If he mentioned how every movement made him breathless with pain it would make his dad worry further, but if he said he was fine (a phrase he said so commonly and falsely that it was on the tip of his tongue before he managed to pull it back) then his dad would know he was lying again.

His dad took his silence resolutely and turned to Parrish.

“Jordan, everything been quiet?”

Parrish straightened out of his seat and (maybe unconsciously) stood at attention.

“Yes sir, nothing to report.”

John nodded, a little of the tightness around his eyes loosening.

“Good. Thanks again for agreeing to do this for your shift. The whole department would jump at the chance to look after Stiles, I’m sure, but I’d rather this be kept as quiet as possible for now so as not to overwhelm the kid with too many visitors.”

Stiles usually would have protested that ‘the kid’ was right here, hearing every word that was said, but he felt no such inclination to butt in and his dad seemed to need this.

“I agree, sir. Stiles does have a way of growing on you,” he gave a crooked smile. “Like lichen.”

There was a soft snort from the doctor who had grabbed Stiles’ chart while the other smiled beatifically. John looked like he tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace and Parrish moved over to him, grasping his arm briefly in a way that John seemed to almost desperately draw strength from.

“Don’t worry sir,” Parrish gave a tight but determined smile. “Our pa- group will all look out for him. This will never happen again, not to any of us.”

If the doctors had caught the slight slip they gave no indication as John nodded gratefully and Parrish turned and gave Stiles the same steely smile that suggested that if anyone even bumped against Stiles while Parrish was around then they’d find themselves looking down the muzzle of his gun. Stiles, who barely knew the man even though he was pack, was slightly overwhelmed.

As Parrish pushed open the door, Melissa walked up from the other side and they shared a nod as they slipped past each other.

Melissa immediately moved over to Stiles and brushed his hair gently back. With any other woman, even Lydia or Kira, he probably would have instinctively flinched away, but this was Melissa.

She’d already poked her head around the door several times that day even though she had to be rushed off her feet – all the hospital staff were since the Oni had killed so many of the staff on the Nogitsune’s bidding, as they hadn’t yet found enough replacements.

That reminder drained what little comfort Stiles was getting from her soft concern and he shifted away from her, almost gleefully latching on to the white hot pain that flared through him, delighting in his own suffering as Melissa tried to hide the brief flash of hurt on her face.

She composed herself again a moment later and said that he looked like he was doing a little better, then she moved over to his dad to give him some much-needed support.

“Okay,” the doctor holding his chart said as she flicked back to the first page and looked up. “Shall we get started?”

John leaned a little into Melissa before nodding and the doctor, a slightly plump black woman with kind eyes and a confident tilt to her jaw, turned more towards Stiles.

“Hello, I'm Doctor Brillington and I have been told that instead of trying to pronounce the frankly intimidating name on your chart I should just call you Stiles. Is that okay?”

Stiles nodded.

“Excellent,” Dr Brillington smiled. “I am, as I’m sure you already guessed, your doctor. I did the surgery you received for your collapsed lung, which is why you’re on the ventilator, and for the internal abdominal bleeding as well as the more serious lacerations on your body that were causing you an immediate threat. After the surgery a colleague set your arm and leg and stitched your non-life threatening lacerations. You’ve been showing good progress so far and woke up around the time we predicated. We’d like to keep you here for at least another week, as the longer you remain on the oxygen the less risk there will be to your lung collapsing again.”

She looked down at the chart in her hand again.

“We currently have you on medication to help with the pain and antibiotics to prevent infection as well as standard intravenous fluids and blood transfusions. I understand that you suffer from panic attacks which could be very harmful to you if you were to have one now, so if you want we can give you a mood stabiliser as well.”

“No,” Stiles croaked out and the doctor simply nodded.

“Very well. I was also informed that you are on Adderall for your ADHD but the lab results showed no trace of it in your system. Can you tell me when was the last time you took it?”

Stiles tried to remember when he’d last had one of the bright blue tablets, but nothing had mattered for so long that it was all a grey jumble.

“I can’t remember,” he admitted. Again the doctor gave no indication to being pleased or displeased and merely made a note on the chart.

“That’s fine, but I’d like you to consider for me as to whether it was more likely that you came off them suddenly, for instance you might have finished your bottle and simply forgotten to get a new one, or if you came off it slowly, like gradually forgetting to take your daily dose and it dropping from every day, to a few times a week, to nothing.”

“I think I probably stopped taking it suddenly,” Stiles mumbled, picking clumsily at the blanket and wondering why he still couldn’t feel things very well or move his good hand like he wanted to. It had been like that since he woke up. Well, he did have his doctor right in front of him.

“Why can’t I feel things very well? And my fingers, the ones that I can move at all, aren’t responding like they used to.”

While the doctor remained professional, Stiles could clearly see Melissa’s face crumple and his dad sag in on himself, as though standing was suddenly too much for him. Melissa helped him to a chair where he buried his head in his hands.

“Stiles,” Dr Brillington began, a heaviness in her voice that told Stiles straight away that he wasn’t going to like what he heard. A tightness started to build in his chest.

“When you were being… attacked,” Dr Brillington went on. “You probably saved your life by instinctively raising your arms to protect your face and throat, however that meant that the inside of your forearms and wrist took the brunt of it. I’m afraid that several tendons along with your ulnar artery were nicked. Although thankfully none were severed you’ve suffered some nerve damage. With the right treatment it might not be permanent, but there is the possibility that you’ll never be able to use your hands properly again.”

Stiles expected a panic attack to grab him and pull him down, or for his ears to ring and for the room to fade away; he expected something to happen after being told that there was a damn good chance he’d spend the rest of his life disabled. He didn’t though. The tightness in his chest didn’t go away, but it didn’t get any worse, and he just stared blankly down at his hands, one almost completely hidden by the splint and bandages. There was just… nothing where his emotions should be. Malia had taken everything. Maybe he’d finally hit rock bottom.

“Oh,” was all he could bring himself to say and even that came out flat.

His dad however seemed determined to make up for everything Stiles wasn’t feeling because he burst into tears. Stiles hadn’t seen him cry since his mom had died.

Melissa tried to sooth him as Stiles looked on blankly, but it made no difference as John rocked back and forth, palms pushing into his eyes as he tried to quiet his broken sobs.

Dr Brillington half turned towards him, a resigned sadness to her face making her look tired. Then the other woman, who Stiles had all but forgotten about, moved to crouch in front of his dad while telling the doctor to continue. She then started to speak in a low, calming tone that Stiles couldn’t make out over the hitched sobs of his father.

“Along with that,” Dr Brillington continued, “is, as mentioned earlier, your right lung. The surgery that I did to fix your lung was non-invasive, meaning I did not have to penetrate your body by cutting through the skin. Instead we could fix the puncture wounds in the chest cavity by going through tubes placed down your throat and into your bronchial airways.

“You will be on the ventilator until we are sure that your lung can take the strain of you breathing properly on your own. However, if your breathing does not improve in the next few days then we will have to look into performing a tracheostomy, which is a small cut to the neck in which we can place a breathing tube directly into the windpipe.”

Stiles nodded, unable to keep from glancing over at his dad who was calming down as the woman continued to talk to him, Melissa nodding along to whatever she was saying every now and again.

“The surgery I had to do for your internal bleeding did have to be invasive. I performed what is called an exploratory laparotomy, where I made an incision in your abdomen so I could seal the ends of the leaking blood vessels with a heat probe. We were concerned about your liver for a while, but the surgery revealed that it was intact.”

“Great,” Stiles intoned. Dr Brillington shot him a grim smile.

“As you can see, your left arm and lower left leg are in casts. So, do you want to know about the fractures first or the breaks? Although technically fractures are breaks, but we won’t get into that right now.”

“The fractures.”

“Okay, you have several hairline fractures on the talus and medial malleolus bones, which are part of the tibia’s base, in your ankle. You also have three hairline fractured ribs.”

“And the breaks?”

“Quite extensive, I’m afraid. You have five broken ribs, luckily for you though none of them shattered. They were all clean breaks and should heal well. Your left arm though had two breaks, the one in your humerus was another clean break, but the one in your ulna was a compound fracture. Now it might not be a compound fracture in the way you think; the bone was cleanly broken, but because you then received a deep laceration over the top of it, it exposed the break to the air meaning it’s at much more risk of developing an infection. We closed the wound up after cleaning it thoroughly, but we can’t put a cast over it, so we’ve had to go with this specialised splint. It’s a fairly new design and the first time it’s been used in this hospital so we’re keeping a close eye on it. We also had to re-break and re-set your finger as it was healing crookedly and would have caused you problems in the long run.”

It was all starting to wash over him, but Dr Brillington continued.

“You have some fairly severe lacerations and a lot of superficial ones to your arms, torso, back, abs, and thighs. The Sheriff,” at this point she glanced over at the slumped man in the chair, “has told me that your assaulter liked to sharpen her nails so they were more claw-like, which would explain why you look like you’ve been mauled by a mountain lion. She must have put a hell of a lot of strength behind her swings though to get them that deep; I'm honestly surprised she didn't tear them off. Or maybe it was the dog she set on you, which reminds me - we’ve given you a rabies shot.”

“A dog,” Stiles muttered, but how else would they explain the bites? Plus the neighbours must have heard the roaring and howls.

“The worst wounds,” Dr Brillington carried on, “as you know were the ones in your back that resulted in your collapsed lung and the one that clipped the ulnar artery in your wrist, but the rest avoided any more serious areas. Since we were able to close them up so soon after you received them and if they are well taken care of the scarring shouldn’t be too bad.”

Scars by that point didn’t matter to Stiles anymore since he already had so many from Malia, including the thick, raised ones on his back that for all Deaton’s care were still painful to look at.

“You have extensive bruising on large portions of your body, so we will be monitoring them for any signs of swelling. If you spot anything just let a nurse know immediately.”

Dr Brillington flicked through a couple of pages in the chart and then shot Stiles a smile.

“Almost done, I promise. With the amount of blood you lost we were worried about brain damage and organ failure, but you seem to be bouncing back from that well. And lastly your final injury is a head wound. Given the scope of your other injuries you were very lucky with this one; it was only superficial, requiring twelve stitches, and you’ve got a concussion but fortunately for you you slept through the worst of it. We did have to shave the hair on the right side of your head off though.”

“You look very punk rock, Stiles,” Melissa feebly joked, bringing Stiles’ attention back to his dad who was still slumped over in the chair but no longer crying. Instead he was watching Stiles with an almost zealous intensity with his red rimmed eyes. Stiles looked away.

“Finally,” Dr Brillington pulled his attention tiredly back. “There is your extensive weight loss. You’re almost three stone under your ideal weight, which has pushed you into the danger zone. The main problem behind that is that your immune system will be very weak, which is something we can’t afford with injuries as bad as yours, making infection much more likely and slowing your recovery time. Now, from the chat that I’ve had with your father and friends it sounds like it doesn’t seem you were intentionally starving yourself. Is that correct?”

Stiles started to shrug and then thought better of it as his entire body protested.

“I just wasn’t hungry anymore. I wasn’t interested in eating.”

Dr Brillington made another note on the chart and nodded.

“I see. What we’ll be doing is gradually re-introducing you to nutrient rich foods as well as keeping you on the IV’s. We’ll start with liquid nutrients in small but frequent doses; you should have already had several today.”

He had: tiny bowls of unappealing soup/porridge type stuff that had had to be feed to him because he couldn’t hold the spoon and had tasted worse than it looked, leaving an unpleasant aftertaste in his mouth. He must have made a face because she chuckled.

“I have heard it tastes pretty grim but it’s got everything you need in it since we pack it full of protein, vitamin, and mineral supplements, hence the bad taste. Sorry Stiles, but you’ve got a few more days of it before we can try you on some real food.”

She lowered the chart.

“And there we go, that’s everything on here. Finally. Phew, I feel exhausted now.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Stiles intoned listlessly, knowing Melissa would have his hide if he wasn’t polite to hospital staff.

The doctor appeared happy to take what she could get and gestured the other woman forward.

She was an Indian woman, probably in her mid-thirties and sliding gracefully towards middle age.

“Stiles, allow me to introduce Doctor Khatri. She is your psychologist and will be helping you mentally get back on your feet while I cover the physical part. She’s just dropped by to say hi, so don’t worry. She’ll sort out when your first session will be.”

There was a sudden beeping from the pager on Dr Brillington’s scrubs and she turned her attention to it.

“Okay, that’s me. It was great to meet you Stiles. I’ll be dropping by again later,” and she rushed from the room.

Dr Khatri pulled up one of the chairs by the bed and sat herself down, far enough away for Stiles not to feel uncomfortable with having a stranger, particularly a female stranger, so close, but also near enough that he felt as though she was directing everything at him, not his father.

“Part of the reason why I became a psychologist was so I didn’t have to go sprinting off every few minutes,” she began easily in a rich, calming voice with a strong British accent. He felt that he should have been reminded of Morrell, but he wasn’t; the aura that she projected was entirely different. With Morrell she always felt forcefully contained and detached, whereas with this woman there was something open and calm about her. In the background Melissa gave a weak chuckle but neither Stiles nor his dad reacted to the joke.

“Can I ask you how you’re feeling, Stiles?” it seemed as though she was the sort of person to cut straight to the point when other tactics didn’t work.

“Pretty sore, I guess,” he began, knowing he was evading the question and lo and behold, she was already shaking her head.

“No, Stiles, I mean how you feel emotionally.”

Stiles clammed up, but from the look on her face his reaction had been exactly what she’d been expecting.

“Okay, let’s put that to one side for now and talk about why I’m here.”

She leaned forward, staring solemnly at Stiles and he wanted to draw away; didn’t want her to say it, but the universe hadn’t exactly been kind to him recently, so why should it start now?

“I’m here,” she continued calmly, “because I specialise in helping people recover from abuse, and you’re here because your girlfriend almost beat you to death. From what I’ve read in your file about the older marks on your body she’s been hurting you, and badly at that, for a long time now. I’ll wager she’s also been sexually and emotionally abusing you too since she established herself as your ‘girlfriend’ to everyone. She wasn’t though; no true girlfriend would ever do that. All she was, Stiles, all she _is_ is an abuser. But you,” she slid right to the front of her seat, so she was as close as she could get to him without reaching out and Stiles couldn’t pull his eyes away from the earnest look in her eyes. “You, Stiles, are not a victim. You survived; you’re a survivor.”

“No, I’m not,” the words cracked and rattled as they left his mouth at the volume of a whisper.

“What makes you say that?” she asked back, dropping her voice to match his.

“I deserved everything she did to me. I could have stopped her right at the start, but I didn’t because I deserved it. _I_ used _her_. I drove her to this and it _was_ all my fault. She’s the one you should be helping, not me.”

“Stiles,” John was on his feet, a hard look on his face. “None of this is in _any way_ your fault. I know from my training that it’s common for someone on the receiving end of abuse to feel like they deserved it, but I can swear none of them, or you, ever did.”

For the first time since waking up in the hospital, Stiles felt a proper surge of emotion. It was brief, and vanished as quickly as it came, but for a second he felt like he was going to burst with his rage.

“You’re not _getting_ it,” he ground out, and whatever reassurance his dad had started on again was put off. “I was receiving exactly what I deserved with Malia because it was my punishment for what I put you all through: for the Sheriff’s office, for Coach, for the hospital, for Aiden, for _Allison_. It was all my fault and I have to pay for it. Malia _should_ have killed me and that’s the problem; I’m still here.”

Melissa made a choked off little sound and had to cover her mouth while his dad stood beside her looking so lost that Stiles almost wanted to just wrap him up in his arms and tell him everything had been a bad dream.

“But,” John said helplessly. “You know that wasn’t you, you have to realise that. The Nogi-” he cut off, his eyes darting to Dr Khatri.

“Oh, perhaps I should have started with the fact that we all have a mutual friend, who contacted me a while ago saying that he felt I’d be needed here: a Doctor Alan Deaton. You don’t have to worry, I know about all the things that go bump in the night and he gave me a brief outline of the past year. You’ve all been in the wars.”

It was so like something Deaton would do that within a few seconds the surprised looks had left Melissa’s and John’s faces and they continued on.

“What John was saying,” Melissa took over, “was that you have to know that it was all the Nogitsune. You weren’t in control, Stiles. It’s not your fault, none of it is.”

“Oh it really is,” Stiles all but snarled, his body twitching with the need to pace back and forth and give his frustration a physical vent. “I should have realised something was wrong straight away, all the signs were there. I should have put it together quicker and the second I realised what was going on I should have put a bullet between my eyes.”

Melissa looked like she wanted to protest but Stiles didn’t give her a chance, _needing_ to make them understand as his eyes fixed on his father’s and remained.

“Did you know, dad, that the bomb and the way it just so happened to go off when the department would be most crowded for the shift change, the crossbow that shot Coach, the way it played your electronics against you, how to circumnavigate the hospital, all of those sorts of things - they didn’t come from the Nogitsune. How could they? The thing had been buried under a tree since the Second World War. They came from _me_ ; my memories, my knowledge, so don’t you dare say none of this is on me. If it had possessed a normal kid it wouldn’t have known how to do any of that. How can you not see this?”

His head dropped back against the pillow, exhaustion filling him.

“Please leave if all you’re going to do is stand there, trying to tell me over and over again that it’s not my fault. It’s not going to work.”

“Stiles-” Melissa started, but John hushed her and stepped forward. To Stiles his dad hadn’t even looked this small, this beaten, when his mom had died.

“Okay, kiddo,” he weakly said and sent Stiles a watery smile. “We’ll leave you be for tonight. Try and get some rest. I love you.”

He reached out with a hand, as though he wanted to give Stiles a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, or maybe clasp the back of his neck and drop a kiss on his head as he used to, but he clenched it and drew it back to his side seconds later and walked from the room.

“Thanks Doctor Khatri,” Melissa rushed out, obviously worried about having John out of her sight. “I’ll drop by again before the end of my shift, Stiles, so behave.”

It was such a typical thing for her to say that Stiles almost called out some sort of sarcastic retort as he watched her dart out of the room. The impulse quickly faded however, and he was left with a patiently waiting psychologist; her head tilted slightly to the side and a smile on her face that matched Deaton’s imperceptibility. He should he realised instantly that those two knew each other.

“So did that pan out exactly as you had expected it to?” he asked, blank faced.

Her smile widened ever so slightly.

“Won’t be getting anything past you, will I.”

He would have snorted, but that would have caused more pain than it was worth, so he settled for a flat look.

Her smile dropped and she was every ounce a professional again.

“It did go roughly as expected. As a psychologist who deals in the supernatural you are not my first formally-possessed patient, Stiles. Frankly, I would have been concerned if you didn’t blame yourself in some way.”

She stood, smoothing down the pant suit she wore under her white coat.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Stiles. I’m going to come back tomorrow, and every day that you’re here for a two hour session. When you can go home I’ll be visiting you there, and you and I are going to help you come through this, to the point where you will understand that it’s exactly as your father and Melissa said: that none of this is your fault.”

Stiles could feel the pressure starting to build up inside him again that would quickly become a toxic, self-loathing wave of anger, but before it could crest Doctor Khatri stepped forward and placed the tips of her middle and index finger just below the bandage on his forehead. A cool rush of what he could only describe as peace flooded him from the point where their skin touched, washing away the hateful bitterness until the pressure was gone. He could feel the moment the last of it left him and his body visibly relaxed, the exhaustion he’d been fighting off rising unstoppably to drag him down. She pulled back her fingers, taking the sensation of peace with her, but nothing destructive rose in its wake.

“What was that?” Stiles mumbled.

“Firstly, know that I will not be using that without your permission again, but at the moment you’re too likely to refuse it with the intent to cause yourself harm to be able to properly give your consent. As for what it was, I’m a magic practitioner like you and Deaton. I can’t use this much power in one go very often, nor even with your permission would I be using it on you very often since I don’t want you to become dependent on it, but my ‘spark’ helps me sooth and heal others emotionally and mentally. It’s part of why I became a psychologist in the first place. Do you know where your magic’s strengths lie yet?”

“No,” Stiles murmured drowsily. She could make a fortune if she could find a way to bottle what she just did and sold it to insomniacs.

“Well there’s more than enough time yet. I do believe Deaton will be dropping by in a while to talk to you about it.”

“That’s nice,” he could barely keep his eyes open, but he could still make out the slight, soft smile.

“Stiles, what you’ve been through, the fact that you made it to the other side, shows me just how amazing you are, and I’m going to help you learn to believe that even if I have to drag you every step of the way. This will be far from easy and I won’t be surprised if you come to hate me, but you deserve peace and a good life.”

Everything was fading and he couldn’t bring himself to fight the rush of sleep even though he knew what it would bring.

“Don’t want to sleep. If I sleep she’s there,” he wasn’t quite sure which ‘she’ he was referring to – Allison or Malia, maybe he meant both since that was more the norm than not these days.

“My magic will keep your nightmares at bay until you wake, but I’ll talk to your doctor about giving you something to help you while you’re here.”

He couldn’t be sure as he finally let go, but he thought he felt a gentle brush of a hand over the unbandaged part of his head and a quiet “rest, Stiles. You more than deserve it.”

And then he was gone.


	10. This Broken Jaw of Our Lost Kingdoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's looking like I'll have to take a little longer in putting the chapters up since, due to all of your totally amazing feedback (seriously, I love you all so damn much and I wish I could reach through the screen to give you all a hug - go to your nearest awesome friend/family member and get them to give you a hug from me), I'm having to add bits and make alterations to the story as I realise I've either missed things or haven't worded them in a way I'm happy with. The updates will still be every few days though and we're over halfway finished! I'm still not too pleased with this chapter though :/

When Stiles woke it was evening, the night sky and the waning moon visible over the trees outside the window. The small table light in the corner had been turned back on, filling the room with a soft light. Deaton was sitting quietly in a chair beside the bed, reading.

“Melissa dropped by before she went home but didn’t want to wake you,” the vet said without looking up.

Stiles, forgetting himself for a moment, tried to sit himself up and was reduced to whining through his teeth as punishment.

“Allow me to help.”

Deaton set the open book page-down on his thigh and reached for the bed remote where it was lying on the side table. A few button pushes later the head of the bed was raised enough that Stiles wasn’t feeling as though he was laid out like a bug about to have a pin rammed through its chest.

“Are you feeling better for the rest?” Deaton asked as he settled himself back in the chair, closing the book properly and holding it loosely between his hands.

Stiles ignored the question.

“I met Doctor Khatri.”

Deaton raised his eyebrows.

“Indeed?”

“Don’t pull that crap with me, she told me you asked her to come here. You knew I’d have to meet her.”

Deaton dropped the closest expression he could get to a ‘surprised’ look and became grave instead.

“I almost thought I was too late,” he turned the book over in his hands, rubbing his fingers along the corners. “When I heard what had happened, while you were still on your way to the hospital, I despaired. All I could think about was that I had known about your predicament for weeks and had failed to stop it from continuing, potentially at the cost of your life,” he dropped his eyes from the book to the floor. “I haven’t felt such a sense of failure since the Hale house burned down. I failed _you_ , Stiles, due to my own vanity and over-confidence in my abilities. I was always convincing myself I had more time until there was none left and for that I give you my deepest apology. I’m so sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles was at a loss for what to say, completely blindsided by seeing the most enigmatic man he’d ever had the frustration of meeting humbled before him.

“But you were always dropping hints that you _couldn’t_ tell Scott or any of the others in the pack about it. I can’t see how you failed me if you were somehow bound not to speak.”

Deaton sighed and actually slumped a little. Stiles almost felt as though he were looking at a stranger.

“That was my own doing as well. Again due to my pride and over-confidence. I thought I had learned my lesson but it appears not.”

“What happened?” Stiles prompted quietly, intrigued despite himself. “I come from a very old magic family. While we’re primarily based in Europe a couple of centuries ago a branch of my family followed some of the more dominant wolf packs who came over here to merge with the some of the ancient Native ones. It was always something that I was very proud of when I was young; that we always became emissaries to such old and powerful packs and I worked hard to earn my place in the best one I could find.”

He paused for a moment, eyes distant.

“When I first met Talia Hale she’d only been an alpha for a month, but she had more control and more understanding of her powers than any alpha I had ever met. I knew I had to be her emissary, but several others were contending for the position as well. I needed to do something to stand out from the others because while I was one of the most powerful, I was also the most inexperienced, so I decided to re-write the age-old contract between an emissary and their alpha; to change it enough to prove to her that I would do anything to keep her pack safe. When she saw it she said she couldn’t turn me down and that, I thought, was that. Then Kate came along.

“In hindsight I can see that even though I was fulfilling the more traditional role of an emissary, in which I only had contact with Talia, her mate, and her second, I still knew enough about her family that I was distantly aware that there was something wrong with Derek. Something that was more than him simply mourning the death of his first love, I mean. But I dismissed it as grief, confident in my powers alerting me if something was truly wrong. I have never stopped regretting that. Then, when I heard about the fire, I was following up what turned out to be a bogus lead in San Francisco about the Argents. It was obviously fake when I looked at it later, but I’d been so zealous about always proving myself to Talia that I walked right into it, and so when my wards around the Hale house were set off I was too far away to do anything and came back to corpses. I was too inconsolable and too ashamed to approach Laura and Derek at the funeral and then the next thing I heard about them was that they were gone and the bindings from failing the contract settled into place.”

“What were the bindings?” Stiles asked and Deaton ran his fingers up the spine of the book before answering.

“I wanted to show Talia that I would never betray her. That her and her pack would always be safe with me as their emissary because there would be no sense in it for me to do so.”

He sighed.

“The contract I wrote out basically meant that she had everything to gain by signing it, and that I had everything to lose if I didn’t abide by its terms: the clauses I put in there would ensure that if I in any way broke the terms of the contract, which would mean betraying the Hales in some way, that I would never be able to hold a position of emissary in any pack that contained a Hale again. I would also never be able to make an action that could be considered a betrayal towards a Hale. Both of these edicts were on pain of death that would be inflicted on me by the binding spells I placed in the contract myself.”

Stiles was speechless for a moment before he managed to gather himself enough to speak.

“But, you told me in your text that you were going to tell Scott. Wouldn’t that have been seen as a betrayal to Malia?”

Deaton nodded.

“Indeed it would. Since Scott recieved the bite I managed to remain just removed enough from pack involvement to not be seen as ‘pack’, along with staying away from Derek and Peter as much as possible. So, while the bindings caused me a little pain from time to time they didn’t, as you can see, kill me. Then shortly before you came to me that first time I found out that Malia was also a Hale. Even if she didn’t view herself as such the binding would still recognise her from her blood, and so I found myself trapped between a rock and a hard place. I needed to figure out a way to tell Scott, since he was her alpha, without the bindings viewing it as a betrayal because I’d undoubtedly be putting her in danger by doing so. But leaving you in that situation was impossible. I should have just risked it anyway, or maybe that was my chance to make up for my failure to Talia and her family with my life. It doesn’t matter though because I was still too slow to act, again, and you were the one to pay the price.”

For a moment Stiles saw the guilt weighing the normally composed man down; the way self-loathing gave his mouth a bitter twist and the grief that was still so heavy in his eyes, which in turn opened Stiles’ eyes to something he’d never even considered.

“You loved her.”

Deaton’s expression faltered and the book dropped from his hands to land loudly on the floor.

“I don’t know-” he began, but Stiles was too tired to deal with a blatant lie. Not now he’d seen Deaton’s true face.

“Enough. You loved Talia. I imagine you still do. I-” he faltered for a second. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like to lose her. From everything I’ve heard about her she sounded like an amazing alpha, woman, mother, everything really.”

Stiles watched Deaton carefully, watching him as he seemed to be having some sort of internal war before his features softened.

“I did love her. I doubt I’ll ever stop nor do I have any wish to. I think it was almost impossible for someone _not_ to love her in some way after meeting her. I didn’t want to be involved with her though; I never resented her husband, nor did I ever want to take his place. I simply wished to devote myself to her and her family for the rest of my life, so I could walk proudly with her and help her shine and grow even more magnificent. Simply talking with her would bring me the greatest joy. I wish you could have known her.”

“I think her and my mom must have been the most incredible women in Beacon Hills,” Stiles managed to get out, almost uncomfortable at seeing such deep adoration on such a usually taciturn man.

Deaton actually chuckled.

“I never had the privilege of knowing your mother but I believe you may be right,” then he sobered. “I guess I failed her too.”

Stiles could see him sliding back towards his bleak mind-set and felt a spark of frustration.

“How can you know if you failed her if you never knew her? I did though and she wouldn’t have thought that. She would have been grateful that you looked after me, that you gave me the _choice_ of telling someone instead of trying to force me right from the get go, and that it sounded like you were still willing to risk your life anyway when it became clear that I wasn’t going to tell. She’d tell you to get your head out of your ass and realise how damn brave you were.”

Deaton looked like Stiles had slapped him, and Stiles himself was tired, his face was throbbing where he knew he had some pretty bad bruising, the start of a nasty headache was building, his throat was killing him, and all he wanted to do was sleep, but he also had to say this because he’d be damned if the one person who had been helping him felt guilty about it.

“And do you really think that Talia would be pleased with you for thinking that you’re ‘making up for your failure’ by killing yourself? Do you really think that if there’s an afterlife she’s going to pat you on the back for a job well done instead of calling you a damned idiot? She knew, just like I know, that you’re fucking smarter than that. I only ever met her once and even I can tell you that about her. For god’s sake you can’t do anything about it now so I’d really fucking appreciate it if you went back to your annoyingly mysterious self.”

Deaton was actually gaping at him by this point and if Stiles had been able to he would have taken a picture.

Stiles gave a cough as his throat finally caught and it seemed to break Deaton out of his trace-like state of shock. He picked up the water picture on the bedside table, poured some out into a waiting plastic glass and put in the straw before lifting it to Stiles’ lips. Stiles immediately took a sip, too exhausted to feel humiliation anymore, and by the time Deaton put the glass back on the table he’d managed to compose himself again.

“I sometimes forget how perceptive you are, Stiles, but I do believe you are right. While I wish I could have done something to ensure that you didn’t get harmed like this, sacrificing my life would have made you blame yourself. I would be disrespecting both your mother and Talia’s memory by doing that to you. I need to find another way to make peace with myself while also showing them and you the respect you all deserve.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say for that quiet but determined declaration. It appeared he didn’t have to though as Deaton continued.

“How about this: I’ve heard about your hands. While it seems like the rest of your injuries should heal without permanent consequence, it’s more than likely that your hands will not. I have access to methods the fine doctors of this hospital do not and I can heal them in a way that will eliminate any lasting damage. I can also ensure that your body, even in such a weakened state, will overall heal well and keep any infection at bay.”

Stiles couldn’t help glancing down at where his hands lay limply in his lap, barely able to feel the rough blanket beneath them.

“I would not be able to stop your injuries from scarring, it would look too suspicious, but I can guarantee that the scars won’t be very visible and won’t cause you any problems in the future as some can. There is a cost though if you remember me telling you.”

“Yeah, something similar to an equivalent exchange, right?”

“Correct. The process in healing you will be a long one, mostly taking the form of salves, and exposing you to active magical ingredients for so long would make your magic grow considerably, to the point that you’d probably lose what little control you currently have over it meaning you’d have to start from scratch again. I have to admit though to being impressed with how you’ve managed to maintain control so far even with how quickly your magic has expanded. So, the cost would be you becoming my apprentice until you can fully control your magic,” he leaned forward a little. “Bear in mind I wouldn’t stop you from going to college, and the magic will recognise you being my apprentice as your payment. If you leave it for too long the magic takes the payment for itself and you have no control over what form it would be in, like when you lost your voice. I made that mistake once when I was first starting to study it and I will never do it again,” he paused, eyes flickering over Stiles’ face, trying to read him, but Stiles had gotten much better at concealing his emotions over the past few months.

“So what do you think?” Deaton asked as calmly as though he were asking Stiles to pass the salt.

Stiles couldn’t lift his eyes from his hands, his mind oddly quiet. Usually it would be rushing about in about seven different directions, all supplying him with potential scenarios of saying both yes and no, as well as information surrounding what he might already know about it, then finishing off with a couple of random thoughts that seemed in no way to be related to the topic at hand. Now though there wasn’t much of anything. He wanted to say no, partially because he wanted to spite himself, but also because he didn’t expect to be around long enough for any of it to really become a problem.

He knew his dad and the others would want him to say yes.

“Can I think on it?”

Deaton didn’t seem surprised or offended by his response.

“I will return tomorrow. If you do decide to say yes then we will have to start your treatment immediately as there is a time limit to how long we would be able to do it before even magic won’t be able to fix your wounds.”

Deaton leaned over and picked his neglected book up off the ground before standing. Stiles was slightly thrown when he realised the man was wearing a worn and very comfortable looking cardigan. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Deaton dressed so casually. The whole thing was surreal and he was more than half convinced he was dreaming it all; there was no way that Deaton would be that expressive in front of him in real life.

“I will wish you a good night then and will drop by again tomorrow evening.”

Again Stiles didn’t respond and again no offense seemed to be taken as Deaton left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he walked away until they finally faded. Then there was nothing but the beeping of the heart monitor and quiet hissing of the ventilator.

The exhaustion suddenly fell away when Stile realised that he was alone for the first time since he’d woken up.

Like a twig trying to stand up to a typhoon Stiles fought against the rising panic and failed miserably as thoughts of Malia having been hiding nearby, waiting for this moment to appear before him, filled his mind.

Pain lanced through him as his limbs started to involuntarily twitch and tremble. He couldn’t stop his breath from starting to speed up as adrenalin flooded into his system, taking the edge off the pain but not enough to stop the tears from streaming down his face as his ribs and lungs screamed for him to stop.

Of all the pathetic ways to die his would be from having a panic attack in a hospital room over the _idea_ of someone finding him.

The machines next to him were screeching out their warning for anyone to hear.

Even as the agony was taking over everything he was still aware enough to notice when the door was wrenched open and he couldn’t stop the whimper that lurched up his throat because it could be Malia. It _should_ be Malia.

His eyes were too blurred to make out who entered, but he could make out that they were far too tall and broad to be her. A few seconds later more people in the distinctive white coats and blue scrubs followed and he found himself repeating the whole ritual of the first night again, minus the questions for concussion.

By the time the hospital staff left, Stiles was swimming under the pleasant dullness of higher pain medication but his eyes had cleared enough for him to make out the solitary figure that had remained: Derek.

Derek had backed himself into the corner furthest away from Stiles in the room and seemed determined to stay there, but Stiles under the influence of the medication _really_ didn’t want him to stay there.

“Derekkkk,” he slurred out. “Why’r you all the way over there? Sit down y’sillywolf. Sit, sit, sit.”

For one long moment Stiles though Derek wasn’t going to comply, and with the way the wolf was glaring at the ground as though if he did it hard enough it would spontaneously combust, it was almost like back when they’d first met each other. Then Derek moved and sank slowly into the chair furthest from Stiles, every muscle tense and ready to bounce him off in any direction like a skittish cat.

“Still too far away but much better, I suppose. Did’ya hear what Deaton said? Yeah, course y’did. You’re-you’re not ‘loud to be angry with him, kay? He did everythin’ he could, y’know?”

Derek said nothing, and refused to look at Stiles at all. Stiles did not find that acceptable but it also made several insecurities whisper in the back of his mind, prompting him to open his mouth and speak in a tidal wave of repressed words.

Maybe it was because of the drugs. Or maybe it was because of this apathy he was smothered in, but Stiles finally found it in him to say all of the things he’d wanted to say to Derek for months. It was not out of courage that he spoke now, nor was it out of fear, and maybe that’s what made it easy to say the words that he’d been choking over for so long.

“So y’hate me again now. Well that's just brilliant, can't say 'm really surprised though after lying to you for so long. Hell, I wouldn't forgive me. But please Derek, please you have to promise me, even if it's jus’ out of remembrance f’r what we had, to open y’rself up again to someone else. Talk with someone like you talked with me. Someone who won't hurt you.”

Stiles snuck a glance and Derek still was looking resolutely at the floor, giving nothing away, which made Stiles want to continue; to get everything out and over and done with. He knew, if he ever came out from under the blanket of apathy that smothered all of his feelings until they were nothing but ghosts of what they used to be, that he would probably later regret his words. But right in that moment his mental state combined with the drugs were making everything feel so far away that it didn’t matter.

“Derek Hale,” the name sounded good in his mouth so he said it again, drawing it out and letting the syllables roll around behind his teeth before releasing them.

“Derek Hale, you are one of the most astounding individuals I have ever had the privilege of meeting, an’ you probably more than anyone else I know deserves to be happy. God but you deserve to be able to trust people an’ know you're being trusted in return. I broke that trust t’you and I don't ask you to forgive me but please believe me when I say you deserve only the best things out of life.”

He paused, trying to line up the words in his head and it was difficult but he managed to jumble them into some sort of order.

“You know when I firs’ met you I felt like I was going out of my mind with trying to understand that there had been, like, this whole other world that I have missed out on with all these new rules for the entirety of my life, an’ you were kind of like this big, scary question mark t’me. You symbolised how ignorant I was which made me frustrated an’ defensive an’ you were such an asshole, seriously, such an asshole, I mean sure I was an asshole too, but still. But even back then when you so obviously hated me an’ I could barely stand you, you still went out of your way to protect me. Since, I’m m’father's son so it didn't take me long to realise that the whole scary attitude was jus’ a defence mechanism for you to keep yourself as safe as possible, plus you'd just lost your sister, your alpha, who outside of the comatose uncle was the only known family you had left. Honestly, there were days when I couldn't wrap my head around how you could even get up the mornin’. I mean, I know I would have just fallen apart if I had lost my dad.”

Derek still wasn't looking at him but if Stiles squinted he was sure he could make out, even with the soft light in the room, a slight blush spreading across Derek's cheekbones.

His head was feeling a little less fuzzy and the words were becoming clearer; easier to grasp and say.

“Derek, I don't know how you do it, I don't know how after everything you've been through how you've managed to stay so kind, and loyal, and good. So yes, I'll understand if you never want to speak to me again, but the kind, loyal, and frankly all around amazing man that I know you are deserves to be able to share that with someone like I know you want to. I'm so sorry I ruined it all, I wanted to tell you so many times but I couldn't. You helped me so much though: when you found out that I had been sleeping at your old house it was because I had been running away from Malia. Then instead of you just kicking me off your property and telling me what idiotic little kid I was being you let me stay and looked after me, then offered me a safer place to hide when it became too dangerous for me to stay there any longer. I don't think you realise how many times you've saved me over the past few months, so let me just say thank you, Derek, for saving me.”

Stiles felt like he’d turned himself inside out, not realising how heavy the weight of the unsaid words that had built up inside him were until they were gone. Even if Derek just got up and walked out, as it looked like he was readying himself to do, Stiles was still relieved that that weight had been lifted.

“I'm so fucking angry with you.”

It took a moment to Stiles to realise that those words weren’t in his head. Derek was almost hunched completely over himself in the chair, elbow digging into his knees and fingers clasped so tightly together that all of the joints were white.

“What?” was all Stiles could bring himself to say.

“You heard me. I'm so fucking angry with you because I _wanted_ to stay angry with you for much longer, but then you had to go and say all of that.”

Derek looked up, his eyes glowing blue, and for a split second Stiles saw Malia, but apart from the colour the eyes were too different; Derek's being so much warmer, and so she vanished as quickly as she had appeared.

“You, Stiles, are an idiot. I'm furious that you didn't come to me, I'm furious that you didn't go to your dad, I'm furious that you didn't even try to go to Scott. Hell, you could have even gone to that crazy Coach of yours, but you didn't, you didn't and Malia almost _killed_ you. Just a little while ago I was telling you how much I cared about you so can you understand why I'm more than a little upset?”

Stiles drew in on himself as much as possible without physically moving and Derek stuttered to a halt.

Logically Stiles knew that everyone was probably a mixture of angry and disappointed in him and he deserves everything that they’d throw at him for however much longer he'd be inflicted on their lives, but that didn't stop it from making it more than a little hard to listen to.

“Wait, no, I didn't mean it like that. Shit, Stiles, I'm not trying to blame you for what happened, that was all Malia, not you. I chose my words poorly just then. What I meant was that I'm frustrated that none of us could make you feel secure enough to tell us. I'm furious with myself, Stiles, for missing all the signs that looking back on now were obviously there. Everyone in the pack feels that way, your dad, Scott, and I most of all because we failed you in a way the others did not: you were with the three of us the most, and we were or are in positions of leadership and what sort of a leader doesn't notice that someone so close to them is suffering so much? You don't need to say sorry to me, Stiles, I need to say sorry to you.”

It was telling in how far Stiles had spiralled when he instantly thought that Derek was lying and was only saying these things to make Stiles feel a little better. Derek seemed to pick up on his disbelief and slumped back in the chair looking frustrated and helpless, running his hands distractedly through his hair and leaving it sticking up at all sorts of odd angles that once would have made Stiles snigger.

“Wait, no, maybe that was a bit too much for you right now. Sorry. Damn it, I fucked up again. Shit. That doctor woman said you’d probably not believe any of us if we tried to tell you it wasn’t your fault but rather ours for not realising and I just go straight ahead and do it anyway.”

Derek continued with his mumbling for a while and Stiles could see that he was dragging himself deeper so he couldn’t be blamed if he just happened to shift and hiss out loudly as pain flared through him again.

Derek was on his feet in an instant, eyes glowing, claws and teeth extending as his head snapped around the room almost too fast for Stiles to follow as he searched out the threat that wasn’t there.

“M’fine, just moved is all,” Stiles said softly, a little thrown by the ferocity of Derek’s actions.

It should have sent him spiralling. Stiles knew how PTSD worked and seeing such an aggressive, familiar movement so close to him should really have set him off. Possibly. Everyone reacted differently to trauma, even if many key parts were similar, like flashbacks. But maybe it was because it was Derek and Stiles had never felt mortally threatened by Derek so he failed to be overwhelmed by the threatening, growling, blue-eyed mythical being at the foot of his bed.

When Derek had ascertained that there was indeed no threat he let his claws and fangs retreat but his eyes remained glowing for a while longer as he moved warily towards the bed, visibly sniffing before his nose wrinkled in distaste.

“Yeah, I know I probably stink. Deal with it,” Stiles sighed, but Derek was already shaking his head.

“No, it’s that you smell strongly of pain. Is there anything I can do?”

Stiles thought about asking for the werewolf pain-sucky mojo thing for about a fraction of a second before he dismissed it. There was no way he’d be inflicting the pain of his injuries on anyone else, especially Derek.

“Could you get me some more water? The lukewarm stuff I had earlier really didn’t do it for me.”

“Sure,” Derek nodded and then was trotting out of the room, taking with him the tension that Stiles had barely even realised was there.

Stiles tried to shift a little against the pillows, so sick of having to remain in one place that he ignored the pain in order to shuffle a few inches up, easing the pressure on his lower back and letting out a soft sigh of relief.

He looked around the empty room, taking in the bland pictures on the wall and the small flatscreen hung opposite his bed. Even though it was one of the better rooms it was still depressing; built around the idea of housing people so sick they weren’t fit to protest the décor. That thought led Stiles to wonder how many people had died in the bed he was currently occupying along with how many people had died in the room. If walls could talk… 

Before his thoughts could continue their morbid trajectory Derek was back, carefully holding a large jug of water filled with ice to replace the almost empty, tepid one. He set it with almost religious ceremony on the table beside Stiles’ bed and cautiously filled one of the glasses there. Instead of using a straw though, Derek forwent one and raised the cup rim to Stiles lips while his other hand coming to clasp the back of Stiles’ neck ever so gently, mindful of the bruises.

“The nurse said small sips,” he stated quietly, eyebrows pinched in concentration and looking like he was ready to pull the cup away the second he thought Stiles was taking too big of a gulp. So, even though Stiles’ throat was as dry as the Sahara, he acquiesced and drunk almost half of the cup with one torturously slow sip after another.

After Stiles had had all he could Derek set the cup back down on the table before settling into the chair by the head of Stiles’ bed. The back of Stiles’ neck was still warm where Derek had held him, sending comforting waves through him from that point.

“You were right,” Derek was using the type of voice he always did when he was about to talk about something he knew no one would like very much. “I did hear what Deaton was talking to you about. Why didn’t you agree, Stiles?”

So they were going to completely avoid what Deaton had said about Talia, not that Stiles could blame Derek for wanting time to absorb that.

Still, Stiles didn’t know what to say in answer to the question. He knew Derek wouldn’t respond well to him explaining that he was planning to turn Deaton down because he didn’t deserve to heal, so he kept his mouth pinched shut.

Derek let out an irritated sigh.

“Stiles, unless you have a damn good reason you have to say yes. If not for you then for your dad, and Scott, and the rest of the pack. Don’t you think they’ll beat themselves up every time they see you struggling to use your hands?”

Stiles rolled his head as carefully as possible around towards Derek, one eyebrow raised.

“Emotional blackmail, Derek? I thought that sort of thing was beyond you.”

Derek looked deeply uncomfortable for a moment before his jaw set resolutely and he met Stiles’ eyes firmly.

“I’m an asshole, remember? And if this gets you better then I’ll deal with you angry with me for a while.”

It was so different from the emotional manipulation Stiles had experienced with Malia that it made his head swim. Fundamentally it was the same, but deployed for reasons that were universes apart: with Malia it had been for her own gain and stemmed from her insecurities, whereas with Derek it was entirely about looking after Stiles while Stiles would not take care of himself.

The idea of Derek potentially being more than willing to look out for Stiles like this again in future; of continuing to be there when the world got too much for him and ensuring that Stiles didn’t harm himself like he wanted to, almost threw Stiles into a panic because after everything he’d been through, everything he’d done, there was no way that something that reassuring could last.

If he didn’t end up making Derek even more miserable he’d probably get Derek killed because the stubborn idiot would be too busy supporting him to look after himself. The mere idea of Derek dead ripped a hole in Stiles so deep nothing would ever be able to fill it, so great was his fear, and it settled in nicely next to the one for his dad.

Stiles, if he did end up surviving for a while longer, could learn to live with Derek no longer having anything to do with him, because knowing that he was still out there and hopefully finding someone who could give him what he needed was what made it okay. But the idea of Derek dying… no he couldn’t cope with that.

“-iles. Stiles!”

He came back to Derek leaning over the bed again, his face white and panicked stricken.

“Sorry,” Stiles ground out, feeling as though he’d just been dropped from a great height. His heart felt like it was trying to pound its way out of his chest.

“Damn it, Stiles,” Derek gave a whole body twitch as though he wanted to just wrap himself around Stiles, and the problem was that Stiles would let him. “Do you want me to get a nurse?”

“No, just give me a minute and I’ll be fine.”

Derek gave a hollow little laugh and it made Stiles’ gut twist horribly.

“A minute? It’ll take more than a minute for you to be ‘fine’, Stiles.”

The way Derek’s voice sounded so broken firmed Stiles’ resolve. Him being around Derek would cause the already wounded man more pain, more loss, and possibly his untimely death. He was poison, putrefying everything he touched, but he would not let his filth touch Derek.

“I’ll do it,” he said and Derek’s forehead creased as he settled himself back into the chair, balancing himself on the edge, ready to spring towards Stiles again if he needed to.

“I’ll agree to let Deaton treat me, I mean.”

The way Derek’s face lit up almost made Stiles swallow the next words, but he fought past it and almost spat them out. He’d show Derek emotional manipulation.

“On one condition.”

Derek’s face fell back into confusion and Stiles had to take a moment to just breathe, drinking in the sight of the man before he truly did ruin everything once and for all. It was for Derek after all, his own feelings on the matter were inconsequential.

“That you don’t come and see me again. Not even when I go back home. We stop this thing between us and go back to just being allies in the same pack, coming together only for the pack or town needs. The rest of the time we don’t see each other.”

Derek remained frozen, face still perplexed, for several painfully dragged out seconds, and then Stiles had to watch the horrible moment when it all sunk in and the world tilted beneath Derek’s feet.

“What?”

Stiles tried not to swallow, even though his throat had dried out again and tried to keep his voice steady as he spoke. It was surprisingly hard but it was so important that he projected a confident front to Derek at that moment, because if Derek saw even a flicker of hesitation Stiles wouldn’t have the strength to deny him a second time.

“You heard me.”

“You’re serious? Stiles, this is ridiculous.”

When Stiles said nothing in response Derek started to grow agitated.

“Why are you doing this? Are you angry with me for not realising? I’m sorry, okay? It’s something I’ll never forgive myself for. I’ll say sorry as many times as you need, just let me help you.”

“This is how you can help me.”

Stiles almost jumped when a high pitched whine escaped from Derek, but the werewolf appeared to be too far gone to notice his slight loss of usually steel-like control.

“Please, Stiles. I know how badly I fucked up but don’t throw me away, you’re all I h-” he cut himself off and jumped to his feet, still whining every now and again as he paced back and forth at the end of the bed.

A mix of pain and regret swirled around Stiles’ gut, but Derek was too distraught to notice as he continued to jump between pleads and shockingly deep psychological analysis as to why Stiles was doing what he was doing.

“It’s because you’re scared, isn’t it. I can’t blame you after everything Malia did to you but you must realise that not all the Hale’s are like that; not Cora, not me.”

So close and yet so far.

“If you’re just going to stand there trying to guilt me then can you please leave?” Stiles asked as flatly as he could, gazing past Derek’s shoulder and giving the impression of a cold dismissal. Inside though he was fighting the urge to vomit; the drugs had all but drained from his system, leaving him with an ever increasing thrum of pain that radiated throughout his whole body as he sat there tense and upright, unable to show any sign of weakness in front of the wolf.

Derek stood there at the foot of the bed, hands gripping the rail so hard Stiles wouldn’t be surprised to find dents later and sharp eyes scrutinising Stiles’ face.

“So that’s it? After everything we’ve been through you’re done, just like that?”

“It’s been a long time coming,” and it had. The closer Stiles had clung to Derek the more the part of his head that would now forever contain the remnant of the Nogitsune, as well as the darkness he now carried forever around his heart, had whispered to him about how he was dragging Derek down with him. He’d known from the moment that Derek had first started opening up to him that this day would come, he just hadn’t figured back then that he’d be breaking his own heart while he did it.

The sharp expression dropped from Derek’s face, his shoulders slumped, and he looked so small and devastated in that moment that Stiles was on the verge of taking it all back before he wrestled the feelings back under the blanket of apathy.

With the emotions fading into grey whispers of what they once were, Stiles found his resolve again; this was for the best. This was for Derek.

“Goodbye, Derek.”

Derek stood there at the end of his bed for a moment longer; looking so lost that Stiles didn’t think even Peter would have been able to resist reaching out to take him in his arms. Stiles though was broken, both mentally and physically, so his numb hands could do nothing more than twitch weakly before Derek was turning and walking slowing to the door like a condemned man.

He paused, one hand on the handle, and Stiles thought he might say something or look back. Instead Derek gazed at his reflection in the glass before dropping his eyes and pushing the door open, stepping through and letting it fall shut behind him.

The click of the door as it fully closed echoed around the room and it sounded like an ending.


	11. In This Valley of Dying Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a super short chapter, but the next chapter (which might take me a few days) is going to be super long!
> 
> Also, I've never really understood why so many people seem to think Danny is this kind-hearted, butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth, nice guy. He's not a bully, I'll give him that, but he's always seemed like such a sarky little so-and-so to me (not that I'm complaining here) and he barely seems to tolerate Stiles at best (although Stiles is a sarky so-and-so too). I'm just a little confused over where everyone seems to be getting 'Danny is the nicest guy ever' from. Was it because Stiles said 'everyone likes Danny' at one point? I always thought what he meant was 'Danny is the nicest one of the scary-popular group and won't always be mean to you for talking to him'. Did I miss something? Ah, well.

Stiles completely withdrew after that evening with Derek.

Before it had been hard but not impossible to get him to speak, but now he was completely silent. He stopped eating and had to be put back on the higher dose of IV fluids. Doctor Brillington became more than a little concerned when his healing visibly slowed and started talking about the tracheostomy and how infection was only a matter of time if he didn’t start drastically improving in the next few days.

The only noise Stiles made was when a pretty young nurse had tried to change his catheter. The second her gloved hands hand closed around his penis Stiles was lost in the memory of Malia.

He’d come back to himself only to find several nurses and orderlies holding him down while Doctor Brillington had been preparing a sedative. The pretty young nurse had been cowering in the corner in tears with a bloody nose.

Doctor Khatri had arrived a few minutes later, concerned etched into every facet of her face and Stiles had managed to catch a few words as the two doctors had spoken in the corner while the nurses went about righting the equipment he’d managed to pull about.

Words and phrases such as ‘uncontrolled screaming’, ‘unresponsive to outside stimulus’, ‘severe PTSD regarding women’, ‘entirely possible he will never be able to be sexually active with a woman again’, ‘anti-depressants’, ‘trauma’, ‘self-harm’ and ‘might be better off at a closed facility’ registered with Stiles as his heart slowly calmed.

His dad had been devastated when he’d been told about the incident when he came by later in the day, especially when he’d heard that by struggling Stiles had worsened his injuries.

Melissa now would barely let the Sheriff out of her sight whenever he was in the hospital, as though she was afraid he’d whip out a whisky bottle there and then and starting binging on it. Stiles could only hope she had a similar setup for when his dad was at home too.

When any of the wolves in the pack were visiting, they would sway between being ridiculously overprotective of Stiles, to the point that they growled any time a nurse came into the room, or they acted overwhelmingly guilty. Isaac had literally burst into tears the first time he saw Stiles getting his dressings changed, and Scott would spend a lot of time reminiscing about the ‘good old days’, which he only ever did when he was trying to make up for something.

Stiles himself felt a more than a little bemused with having Scott back in his life, interacting with him every day now. On school days Scott would swing by right after, and on the weekend he would turn up in the mornings and stay until someone kicked him out. To go from virtually nothing to so much left Stiles feeling unbalanced, even though Scott never pressured him to answer back. Scott was simply there all the time, tension and unspoken words thick in the air between them and his big, brown eyes gazing at Stiles with such sorrow and regret that Stiles could no longer meet his gaze.

He could tell that his lack of improvement was taking a toll on his (former?) best friend. The first time Scott would lay his eyes on Stiles at the start of every visit he would stumble or falter for a second, as though he’d forgotten how badly injured he was.

Stiles knew that the bandages and casts still covered the worst of it but he’d been shown how messed up his face was, with a bruise starting at his right temple and going right down to his jaw, a black eye, split lip, and several cuts most likely made when he was thrown through the wall dotted over his forehead and nose.

Stiles didn’t know how they looked now, all he knew was that Scott winced every time he glanced at Stiles’ face.

The bags under Scott’s eyes started to make a reappearance, and his face started to take on the harrowed look that Stiles had been so relieved to see vanish the first time. Talk of the ‘good old days’ was fast to run out and most of the time they would sit there for hours in silence, both unable to speak even though there was so much that needed to be said.

It was always a relief when someone came with Scott, because they always dissipated the worst of the tension.

Lydia would come by with Scott after school, bringing her school work and Stiles’.

She’d informed Stiles crisply, in the way she did whenever she was hiding what she was feeling, that Stiles’ dad had called the school to let them know the basics of the situation and Lydia had nominated herself (not that anyone would have dared to contest her) to bring all of Stiles’ assignments to him.

It was only after they talked to the school that they’d found out just how far Stiles had fallen behind, to the point where if he didn’t bring his grades back up to what they once were before the end of year exams then he’s face having to repeat the year.

Lydia was having none of that and told Stiles in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t tolerate having to compete with anyone other than Stiles for Valedictorian.

At one point he may have been annoyed with her apparent bossiness, but her voice would often tremble or break at the end of sentences, or sometimes she’d trail off and just stare at him. She’d rally herself admirably of course a few seconds later and Stiles could only be slightly grateful that she was at least somewhat trying to treat him normally. So far however Stiles had been non-responsive to any of her prompting to do any schoolwork.

Given that she didn’t try to jump down his throat after the third consecutive day of Stiles just staring listlessly at the wall while Lydia tried to engage him with their physics homework, Stiles figured she’d been warned about his rather extreme reaction to anything he might interpret as female aggression, be it sexual, physical, or verbal.

Derek kept his word and didn’t come back.

Kira was dealing with the situation as best she could, but she had so far ended up apologising every time she saw him about her fox-fire kick starting the Nogitsune even though Stiles didn’t think she had anything to apologise for. Sure, it did mean that the Nogitsune, who had been weakened from spending so long trapped, had been able to take control a little sooner, but it still would have found a way with or without Kira. Then she would apologise about always apologising.

Maybe due to Stiles being unable to verbally reassure her, Kira continually tried to make it up to him by bringing comics and reading them to him or talking about the Marvel movies, and because she had a kind soul and a sweet heart every now and again she’d forget herself and try to give Stiles a hug, or reach out to give him a comforting touch. So far Stiles had instinctively flinched visibly enough for her to catch herself, but he found himself watching her more closely because of it, constantly expecting her to catch him off-guard at some point.

Isaac was always the most exhausting outside of Scott and his dad. The young man seemed terrified of talking to Stiles about any of his own experiences and would mutter something about triggers every now and again, but he also seemed quite desperate to at the same time. The longing in his expression was almost like a physical weight on Stiles and always left him drained. Isaac also seemed determined to be his friend now, not letting the fact that Stiles wasn’t speaking hinder him in the slightest as he would talk to him about his interests. Every now and again though he’d inadvertently mention his brother or his dad and then would go quiet, returning to the sorrowful, longing looks.

Parrish was a rock in the swirling emotions of everyone else. He’d usually come in with a book, ask Stiles how he was feeling, and when Stiles wouldn’t respond he would simply settled down and read for a few hours. Occasionally he’d give Stiles unasked for but much appreciated updates on his dad, who wasn’t doing terribly well and had been all but forced off active investigations and into filing duty at the station as making him take time off would be the same as giving him a free pass to go and drink an entire liquor store. Parrish worded it carefully, but it was easy for Stiles to read between the lines to understand just how worried everyone at the station was for the Sheriff.

Parrish also updated him on the situation with Malia. He’d avoid using her name for the most part and referred to her as ‘person X’, something which Stiles would have been delighted by at one point, and Stiles supposed he should be grateful that at least one person was keeping him in the loop but it simply reminded him that Malia was remaining stubbornly missing.

All of the pack, including Parrish, but excluding Peter who was still AWOL, as well as neighbours, teachers and classmates, had been interviewed by the deputies heading the investigation. The pack, as they had been considered the people Stiles was closest to, had been questioned to within an inch of their life about Malia, about Stiles, about Stiles and Malia. None of them could miss the way the deputies immediately picked up on things that they’d overlooked or ignored, like how dominating Malia had been with Stiles right from the start.

The pack had come together to discuss what they’d been asked with each other when the interviews were over and Parrish had witnessed how they’d all agreed that they’d foolishly excused Malia’s over-aggressive attitude as her being a were-coyote and struggling to re-acclimatise to being human again. Isaac had commented on how he and Erica especially had acted when they’d first been turned and how quickly the others had made it clear that what they were doing wasn’t okay. The pack meeting had dissolved into arguments, frustrated name calling, and tears from there.

Parrish at one point confessed his own frustration to Stiles that due to his training he should have picked up on something. Stiles had wanted to remind Parrish that once Stiles had stopped going to pack meetings early on in his relationship with Malia, Parrish had only seen him twice – once when Liam had been turned, and the other when everyone had gone to Lydia’s to watch movies. Parrish hadn’t had the chance to interact with Stiles either of those times, so the fact that Parrish was blaming himself was ridiculous. Fortunately he only spoke of it the one time and he’d been quick to go back to talking about the case, as though he were embarrassed at admitting such a thing.

Apparently there was so much damning evidence on Malia now (Parrish had seen the files, plural), such as her aggressive interactions with people from the restaurant to school and everything in-between, the staff feedback from her brief stay at Eichen House in which they’d all said she’d made ‘no progress’ and shouldn’t have been released, her failing grades, all combined with the fact that it was public knowledge that she’d lived wild in the preserve for eight years, that even if they caught her and Stiles refused to testify she was still deemed too mentally unstable and dangerous to remain in civilian society. At best if she was caught she’d be looking at potentially the rest of her life locked away in Eichen House or a similar facility.

No matter if she was found or not, Malia’s life in Beacon Hills was over and that just made Stiles sink deeper.

Danny would usually accompany Liam and Mason, more so to keep an eye on them than anything else as the two of them together were as bad as Stiles and Scott had been at their age, which meant they wanted to poke _everything_. Danny was good at distracting them in ways that didn’t come across as bossy or patronising, because while Liam and Mason agreed that what had happened to Stiles was terrible they hadn’t known him before, so they couldn’t really comprehend what Stiles had used to be like and so what had been lost.

The first time Danny told them the story of how Stiles had used Derek to get Danny to do his bidding the two of them had fallen about laughing, but hadn’t really been able to associate the Stiles in Danny’s story with the silent, thin, and broken Stiles on the bed. They spoke about it as though Danny was talking about an entirely different person, much to Danny’s frustration but not to Stiles’ surprise.

All in all, Danny seemed to be taking the brutal reveal of Stiles’ abuse fairly well, given the situation, and while he and Stiles had pretty much known each other since kindergarten they hadn’t fallen into the ‘friends’ category for a very long time. When Danny had officially joined the pack it had been on the coat-tails of the Nogitsune debacle (Ethan had wandered up to Scott before he’d left the school for the last time and had casually informed him that Danny knew they were all werewolves and had for who knows how long before wandering off, leaving Scott to dash off almost in hysterics to find Danny,) and Stiles had already been falling into the abusive relationship with Malia, so while they were pack mates they weren’t friends.

Danny had always been seen as ‘nice’ because he was the kindest one of the popular group. He never bullied anyone, and wouldn’t immediately dismiss you most of the time if you tried to talk to him. He did still have that stand-offish attitude that all of the popular group had; walls that needed time and trust to come down before he’d actually let you see the real him. Those walls hadn’t had a chance to fall with Stiles, nor the other way around, so Danny didn’t push him to talk, like Parrish. Unlike Parrish though was that it wasn’t really out of a form of respect, but more the uneasiness of being put into an uncomfortable situation where something terrible that you wouldn’t wish on anyone had happened to someone you feel you should be friends with but aren’t.

Danny had never really bothered to hide the fact that he hadn’t liked the ‘pre-Nogitsune’ Stiles very much, so he was stuck with trying to help a pack mate, but also with the prospect that he might be trying to bring back a person he would still struggle to get along with. It had resulted in Danny turning his focus more on Liam and Mason than Stiles, and he struggled to look at or directly talk to him, something which Stiles would have to be blind to miss.

Derek still kept to his word and didn’t come back.

Deaton had done as he said he would and had dropped by again the following evening after Derek had left. As soon as he realised that Stiles was no longer speaking he’d managed to ask all of his questions in a way that could be responded to by a simple shake or nod of the head.

When he’d confirmed with Stiles that Stiles would indeed go along with his idea he’d lifted his briefcase onto the table, clicked it open and started pulling out several glass pots of salve that he’d said he’d prepared on the chance that Stiles had agreed.

It had been a long process to get the various ointments and lotions on as many of the wounds he could reach then lastly he’d slathered on a thick greenish paste on Stiles’ hands and had told Stiles to remain still until it had been completely absorbed into his skin. Deaton had excused himself soon after, saying that he wouldn’t stress Stiles with starting the training yet, and Stiles had been left to stare at the paste as it gradually vanished into his skin.

Deaton had returned every early evening since, always leaving Stiles’ hands for last, but Stiles had seen no improvement yet.

Things with Stiles’ dad got progressively worse; John turning up stinking of whisky more frequently and looking like he hadn't slept, eaten, or changed his clothes, the longer Stiles couldn’t bring himself to speak until one day he didn’t turn up at all.

Parrish had finished his shift as normal, putting his book away and ensuring he clipped his gun back into place, but when John hadn’t arrived he’d waited. After over an hour Melissa had poked her head around the door and then frowned when she didn’t see who she was expecting to and gestured for Parrish to join her out in the hall. Unfortunately she didn’t close the door properly behind her and Stiles could hear them fairly well over the beeping of the machines attached to him.

“Today’s his day off so I didn’t think anything of not seeing him at the station.”

“Okay, you call him and I’ll call Scott to see if he’ll swing by John’s house. There’s no way he wouldn’t be here.”

They moved away from the door, Melissa most likely going back to the nurses station so she could call Scott and Parrish heading outside so he could use his cell, but a short while later they were back, both still oblivious to the fact that the door was ajar.

“I got no response from his home phone or cell,” Parrish said sounding tense.

“Scott’s on his way over there right now. I’ll get back to the nurses station so he can call me and you stay here with Stiles.”

A single set of footsteps moved away and Stiles could just see the edge of Parrish’s right shoulder and arm through the narrow rectangle of glass in the door. He kept picking at his thumb nail which was probably a nervous habit.

The minutes continued to stretch out with still no sign of his dad and Stiles actually started to feel a whisper of dread pooling in his stomach; the first emotion he’d really felt since he’d made Derek leave.

“Jordan!”

The loud voice yanked Stiles out of his head in time to see Melissa stop exactly in the right place for him to see her clearly through the glass. The expression on her face was a mixture of fear, worry, and outright fury.

“Scott just called. He found John unconscious at his house surrounded by empty bottles. It looks like he’s hit his head and Scott couldn’t wake him so he called for an ambulance. He did say that his pulse and breathing were strong though. There was apparently a lot of vomit as well and if John had passed out on his back…” she trailed off with a shaky breath. Parrish’s arm came up to squeeze her shoulder in reassurance.

“I know, but he didn’t, try to focus on that. Right, I won’t be of any use so I’ll stay here for now, but you should head down so you can be there the moment he arrives. I’m assuming Scott will be riding in with the ambulance so let him know what’s going on with the Sheriff before sending him up to me. Guarding Stiles will give him something to focus on.”

“Okay,” Melissa was back to her fierce self now she had something to do and she was gone seconds later.

Only when her footsteps had faded away did Stiles see Parrish clench his hand into a shaking fist where it had been forcibly kept lose and relaxed at his side.

“Damn it, John,” Stiles heard him whisper before he shook his head hard and let out a deep sigh.

Apparently in control again he turned and Stiles didn’t even bother to look away when Parrish realised that the door had been open the whole time. He stepped inside and met Stiles’ eyes tiredly.

“I guess you heard all of that, huh?”

Stiles nodded and Parrish went back over to ‘his’ chair.

“Well, it’s not like I was going to keep this from you. I was planning to tell you as soon as I found out your father’s condition. Guess Scott can tell the both of us now.”

As the time passed, Parrish remained almost worryingly calm, his thousand-yard stare fixed somewhere out of the window and Stiles remembered that he’d only recently left the army. He was probably used to waiting for news like this. The only giveaway that he wasn’t as composed as he was letting on was a slight twitch in his hand every now and again.

Stiles himself didn’t seem to be feeling much of anything and he couldn’t work out why. He tried to force _something_ but instead he became more and more detached from everything again.

Neither moved nor spoke until Scott arrived at the room several hours later.

The second the door started to open Parrish was on his feet, snapping out “well?” to an exhausted looking Scott.

Scott, instead of answering immediately, glanced doubtfully at Stiles and Parrish huffed in irritation.

“He knows and I’m sure is even more eager than me for you to tell us what’s happened. Out with it.”

It was when Scott hesitated again that Stiles knew something was wrong.

“T-the,” Scott stammered and then stopped, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths before trying again. “The alcoholic levels in the Sheriff’s blood were very high. They pumped his stomach but said that most of it would have been absorbed into his system by now. That’s not the bad news though,” he broke off again and looked helplessly at Stiles for a moment before dropping his eyes.

Stiles wondered if he ought to try willing Scott to hurry up, but the emotional effort that would take would pull him back into his own body and for some reason he didn’t want that just yet. It was almost nice to be so cut off from everything. Nothing could reach him here.

“It seems that the Sheriff has been drinking very heavily recently and he’s showing signs of alcohol poisoning. They’re very worried about his liver and heart, plus he’s-he’s not waking up.”

“The head wound?” Parrish shakily asked and Scott nodded miserably.

“They can’t really do too many further tests until more of the alcohol has gone from his system. They say they’re quite confident that he’s going to wake up but there’s also the chance that he just… won’t.”

Just like that the detachment that Stiles had been safely encased in was no more.

Stiles really had thought he could fall no further, that there was only so low a person could be dragged before they simply ceased to be that person anymore. But he’d been wrong and there was another level to the bleakness consuming him and now he could feel it, could feel himself hovering over the yawning abyss of oblivion as though he was balancing on the edge of a razor blade. Only he didn’t have the strength to remain on that edge anymore.

Derek still hadn’t come back and now his dad was gone.

Stiles had reached his limit and now he was done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A friend of mine from uni lost her father while she was there by him choking to death on his own vomit while drunk. Please, if you ever see anyone passed out from drinking don't just ignore them. Put them in the recovery position and call an ambulance. That's it. If you don't feel comfortable/safe by staying (and of course you need to put yourself first) that's all you need to do and you may well have saved someone's life. Thank you.


	12. In This Last of Meeting Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would ask you to read the tags again and ensure that nothing in them would trigger you, or that you're prepared for it. Thank you. Lastly, this chapter got too long so I've had to split it again.

It had been remarkably easy really.

Since no one expected him to speak anymore Parrish had soon excused himself to head downstairs to check on the Sheriff while Scott had slumped into the vacant seat and hadn’t moved again until Deaton had shown up.

He’d explained the situation to the vet, who had become very grim on hearing the news and then said he’d go down to check on John as soon as he was finished with Stiles.

Scott had then helped Deaton slather huge swathes of Stiles body in the various potions and lotions, reducing the vet’s time by more than half, and then Deaton had left Scott entirely on his lonesome to put the paste on Stiles’ hands.

As Scott had fallen into the hypnotic motion of rubbing the paste into Stiles’ hands, Stiles implemented the first phase of his plan, guessing that the skin-on-skin contact would probably help.

He reached out to his magic and it shivered awake, then he started to believe with all of his might.

A few minutes later Scott let out his first yawn. It got progressively worse as Scott shifted from one hand to the other until he was swaying backwards and forwards, almost face-planting on Stiles several times as he fought to keep his eyes open.

“S’rry man,” he slurred. “Not been sleepin’ well r’cntly. Just gonna-just gonna finish this then grab a nap, s’okay?”

Stiles shifted his weight the smallest amount and Scott fell with it, landing the upper half of his body face-first on the edge of the mattress and starting to snore up a storm while his lower half remained awkwardly in his chair.

Phase one complete, Stiles put phase two into action which he honestly wasn’t sure would work as he didn’t know how magic effected machinery.

Going for it anyway Stiles started to believe that the machines would remain undisturbed. He felt the expansion of his magic, hoped it had worked and then moved on to the third phase, which was focusing his belief on his own body.

He believed it was well enough to move; strong enough to get him to where he needed to go and he felt the magic take hold. Cautiously he flexed his less injured hand. He still couldn’t feel his fingers properly and none of the wounds on his body had miraculously gone, but he found he could move with minimum pain.

He carefully pulled his IV out then went for the patches that connected him to the heart monitor, which remained beeping steadily away when he’d removed them.

More confident now he made short work of the other attachments to him that would stop him from getting out of the bed, then once he thought he’d got everything he slid his good foot out from under the covers.

Standing after such a long time lying down made him feel as though he was on the deck of a ship in a storm, but he managed to remain upright and take several shaky steps to the door, trying to balance on the cast on his left foot.

He could feel how his broken bones were grinding horribly together, protesting under the strain. The stitches holding closed his wounds felt like they were at snapping point, and tore muscles felt watery weak. He felt it all distantly though and instead of returning to the bed as his body was begging him to he merely enhanced his belief that his injuries would hold together long enough for him to get where he needed.

It was slow going, but once he reached the door he lent against it before putting into motion the next phase of his plan and he could feel his magic starting to buckle and thrash under the weight of it all, what little control he had over it being pushed to its limit. He persevered though and managed to force it out, ensuring that no one would cross paths with him to where he was going. It worked too, no nurses or doctors or other patients came across him as he slowly made his way along the too-bright corridors.

Quite suddenly, and he had no idea where it came from, he found himself remembering something that he used to do with his mom.

They’d shared several interests that no one else, not even his dad, had seemed to understand but poetry had always been their favourite one. To Stiles it had felt as though they were sharing the most beautiful secret – a special world only they could see and they spent many a happy afternoon sprawled out somewhere around the house or garden as they poured over the works of Emily Dickson, W.B. Yeats, Maya Angelou, E. E. Cummings, Oscar Wilde, Dylan Thomas, and more. His mother’s favourite poet had been W. H. Auden, while his had been Philip Larkin. There was nothing Stiles had loved more than to listen to his mom read to him, her melodic voice dancing along the lines of poetry, wrapping the already beautiful words around him like dust motes in a sunbeam.

After she had got sick he would read to her, until her mind had deteriorated to the point that she couldn’t understand the words anymore. And then all Stiles had been left with was a pile of books he suddenly despised but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of, so they sat in a box in his closet gathering dust.

Stiles hadn’t been able to quite let go of poetry though, but his preferences had twisted. He found himself obsessively memorising the darkest works from Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath, Emily Brontë, and T. S. Eliot. Then, on the first anniversary of his mom’s death, he found he’d lost all his taste for them entirely and hadn’t looked at another poem unless it was for school. Whenever he remembered them though, it was always the ones from after he’d lost his mom that rattled around his head. Like now.

It had been the one he’d gone to the most as he’d watched his mother fade, masochistically burning it into his memory to make himself hurt whenever he thought of her: ‘The Hollow Men’ by T.S. Eliot.

It seemed apt that this was what came to his mind now he was making his last journey, and he found himself mouthing the words as he shuffled and limped along.

‘We are the hollow men  
We are the stuffed men  
Leaning together  
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!  
Our dried voices, when  
We whisper together  
Are quiet and meaningless  
As wind in dry grass  
Or rats' feet over broken glass  
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,  
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
Remember us—if at all—not as lost  
Violent souls, but only  
As the hollow men  
The stuffed men.’

There was a point where he stepped forward and his leg just gave out under him. He partially managed to catch himself before he hit the ground but he still ended up on his knees, head hanging.

Drops of liquid spattered the floor in front of him and it took him a moment to realise that they were falling from his face. Whether they were tears or sweat though he couldn’t tell.

Numbly he pushed himself back onto his feet and forced his shaking legs to continue on.

‘Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
In death's dream kingdom  
These do not appear:  
There, the eyes are  
Sunlight on a broken column  
There, is a tree swinging  
And voices are  
In the wind's singing  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer  
In death's dream kingdom  
Let me also wear  
Such deliberate disguises  
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves  
In a field  
Behaving as the wind behaves  
No nearer—

Not that final meeting  
In the twilight kingdom’

By the time Stiles had reached the final door he was panting, his shaking making it almost impossible to walk and his hospital nightgown sticking to him since he was drenched in sweat.

He could feel his magic stretched out like spider web strands and just as fragile on Scott, the machines in his room, attached to his body and each of his limbs, and scattered out on every doorway and corridor in the hospital that he’d had to pass through.

He just had a little bit further to go, but as he stepped forward and pushed open the door he felt the magic he had attached to keeping people away fall apart. He didn’t try to bring them back as it seemed superfluous since he’d made it to his destination and stepped out.

The empty roof greeted him.

‘This is the dead land  
This is cactus land  
Here the stone images  
Are raised, here they receive  
The supplication of a dead man's hand  
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this  
In death's other kingdom  
Waking alone  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with tenderness  
Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers to broken stone.’

He almost failed at the final hurdle as he’d forgotten how tricky moving across the roof was (something made doubly so when trying to move with one leg and one arm in a cast and numb, slow-to-respond hands) with sections that required him to climb up onto them before he could continue forward, but finally, _finally_ , he made it to the roof edge.

All it would take was one small step more and then it would all be over.

‘The eyes are not here  
There are no eyes here  
In this valley of dying stars  
In this hollow valley  
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places  
We grope together  
And avoid speech  
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless  
The eyes reappear  
As the perpetual star  
Multifoliate rose  
Of death's twilight kingdom  
The hope only  
Of empty men.’

There would be no more draining the life out of his dad (if he ever woke up that is), no more letting down his brother, no more destroying the trust of his friends. No more selfishly hoarding the best of Derek so no one else could see. Everyone would finally be free of him and the thought of them all learning to smile, finding happiness, and _living_ again without him there sucking the good out of everything and breaking everything he touched gave him the strength to life his foot and to swing it forward over the edge.

To feel gravity pull, then take him entirely.

‘ _Here we go round the prickly pear_  
_Prickly pear prickly pear_  
_Here we go round the prickly pear_  
_At five o'clock in the morning._

Between the idea  
And the reality  
Between the motion  
And the act  
Falls the Shadow  
_For Thine is the Kingdom_

Between the conception  
And the creation  
Between the emotion  
And the response  
Falls the Shadow  
_Life is very long_

Between the desire  
And the spasm  
Between the potency  
And the existence  
Between the essence  
And the descent  
Falls the Shadow  
_For Thine is the Kingdom_

For Thine is  
Life is  
For Thine is the

_This is the way the world ends_  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_Not with a bang but a whimper._ ’


	13. The Hope Only of Empty Men

The world lurched away from Stiles, but it took him a moment to realise that he was going in the wrong direction. He should be going down, not backwards.

He slammed into someone so hard it made every injury, even while held together with magic, spasm in pain, and then they were tumbling. The other person somehow managing to wrap themselves around Stiles in a way that took the worst of the fall, leaving Stiles winded but miraculously with his injuries no worse than before.

They ended up sprawled out on the roof with Stiles on top of the person’s chest, blinking dazedly at the lip of the roof that was now so far out of reach as the person’s arms were wrapped around him like steel bars.

Finally, once everything stopped spinning, Stiles shakily managed to lift his head even though he already knew who it would be, because he knew those arms and chest, and there was Derek; Derek who didn’t look as though he’d slept since the last time he’d seen Stiles, Derek who looked as though all of his nightmares were coming true in that moment, Derek who once he realised Stiles was staring at him started shaking his head frantically back and forth.

“Don’t. You can’t. Don’t, please don’t, Stiles. Don’t. Please, please don’t.”

“Let me go,” Stiles rasped and didn’t recognise his voice. Derek in response tightened his arms until Stiles was almost gasping at the pressure they were putting his ribs under.

“I won’t,” Derek replied stubbornly.

Stiles started to scrabble uselessly at him, digging his numb nails into whatever skin he could find until he drew blood, trying to stem the rising panic inside him.

“You must. This is the only way I can fix things, Derek. Let me go!”

“No,” Derek snarled, eyes flashing.

It should have been raining. Stiles might have had a chance of slipping out of Derek’s grip in the rain. Instead it was an overcast, still, and uncomfortably warm night in comparison to the cool spring nights they’d had so far, with the lights of the hospital shining an orange glow on the clouds which in turn cast a dull light over the struggling pair on the roof.

“You don’t understand; I said this is the only way, Derek!”

Stiles tried pulling his arms out from under Derek’s grip so he could potentially batter the infuriating wolf with his cast, but Derek’s grip kept them pinned against his chest.

“No, you don’t understand how you doing this would kill us!”

“No it wouldn’t. You’d all be free of me!”

“Why would we want to be free of you, Stiles? Answer me!”

“Because I’m poison!” Stiles screamed and stopped struggling, slumping forward hopelessly until his forehead rested over Derek’s heart, which he could feel pounding underneath him.

One of Derek’s arms finally lifted, but the other remained firmly in place. The free hand ran gently over the back of Stiles’ head and down his spine in such a soothing manner it made Stiles want to bite him in spite because he did not want soothing right now. He wanted to fight, to push Derek away again so he could finish what he’d started.

“When have we ever said anything to make you think that, Stiles?”

Stiles let out a wrecked chuckle.

“I’ve been told my whole life that I’m a broken little fuckup who ruins everything I touch. Outside of Scott I had no friends for years because I was too weird to be around. Kids at school told me that I was the reason my mom was sick, which turned into them called me a murderer when she died, and I believed them. Still do in fact,” and he was rambling now, unable to stop the bitter mess spewing forth from his mouth as Derek’s face became more and more stricken below him.

“I can’t keep my dad from drinking, it’s my fault that Scott was turned and so everything that’s happened to him because of him being a werewolf since is also my fault. I couldn’t save Erica and Boyd when I had the chance, I couldn’t figure out who the Darach was until it was too late, and I couldn’t keep the Nogitsune out. And then,” his laugh was hysterical this time and took him a real effort to reign back in.

“And then,” he continued, choking on his own shame and disgust. “It showed me everything it did while it was wearing me like a glove and I felt _strong_. For the first time, even though it wasn’t me, I could keep up with you guys. For once I was the predator, not the prey, and I revelled in how indomitable it made me feel. The Nogitsune in return gave my anger a focus and used all of my knowledge to make all of those weapons and bombs and I was stuck because I hated what it was doing, I was terrified of who it was going to hurt, but I loved the way it made me feel. To finally, genuinely not give a fuck about what anyone thought was so _freeing_ ,” Stiles trailed off, panting for breath as he let the memories fade before beginning again.

“It picked up on how fascinated I was of you, you know. That’s why it made you the king on the chessboard. There wasn’t any other reason other than to fuck with your head,” he rocked back in Derek’s hold and this time Derek let him go, his arm falling limply to the side as Stiles remained seated on his chest, gazing up at the clouded sky and he carried on pouring out what was left of his soul.

“It was all a game to it, and I do mean all of it. Everything it did while it was possessing me was all out of fun while it slowly got its real strength back. Did you actually all think you’d beaten it because you were such a _tour de force_ against it? It didn’t consider _any_ of you a threat right up until Scott sank his teeth into its arm. If it had it might have gotten serious, and if it had, well… there wouldn’t be a Beacon Hills left.”

Derek made a choked off little noise; as though he was biting off a denial but was terrified to interrupt and Stiles snapped his head down to stare at him solemnly.

“You want to deny it? Can’t imagine something being that strong I’ll bet, and before I had that _thing_ in my head I’d have probably agreed with you. Problem is is that when the Nogitsune split off from me it stayed connected so it could continue draining my life force and jump back into me if it needed to, kinda like leaving dinner warming in the over while you pop out so it’s all ready for you when you get back. Anyway, it backfired a little on it when Scott bit it because when the connection between us broke it had left a piece of itself inside me,” Derek went rigid at that and Stiles was quick to sooth him.

“No, no, not like that, there’s nothing conscious left of it to take over again. It left its memories. A thousand years’ worth of mayhem and violence, so I _know_ what it’s capable of when it gets serious, and the fact that we managed to get rid of it with only a couple of dozen people dying is getting off scot free, believe me.”

“Stiles,” Derek breathed out, aghast, but there was no stopping Stiles now. He had to get it all out.

“So because I let that fucking thing inside me I had to try to figure out how to live with the fact that Allison’s death, and Aiden’s, the hospital staff, patients, and several deputies, as well as my dad putting his entire career and safety on the line to keep me hidden, Scott being unable to even look at me, Isaac trying to learn to cope with losing another important person to him, and Lydia losing her best fucking friend; all of it was _my fucking fault_ ,” he was snarling now, leaning in so close to Derek’s grey face that their noses brushed.

“And then came Malia,” Stiles crooned, almost lovingly against Derek’s lips before leaning back a little with a twisted smile.

“She took my virginity you know. Well of course you know, I didn’t exactly keep quiet about the fact that I was a virgin before, did I? Woke up one night after possibly the worst nightmare imaginable about Allison to find her already on my dick. Thought the nightmare had just changed because the last time I’d seen Malia had been at Eichen House and I couldn’t understand how she could be in my bedroom, fucking me, when she was supposed to be there.”

Derek was letting out the most horrible, strangled whines under him and had started to shake; eyes wide as his head slowly started to shake back and forth, face, if possible, draining of colour even further.

It struck Stiles that he might be reminding Derek of his twisted relationship with Kate. From what Stiles had heard of the woman she seemed the sort to have done similar things to Malia. He didn’t want to hurt Derek like this, but he also had to make Derek understand why it was better for everyone if he go, so he decided to circumnavigate the sexual details as best he could.

“She was always like that, just taking whatever she wanted whether I wanted to or not, except, you know, I never wanted to. Can’t tell you how angry she started to get when she couldn’t get me hard anymore. Anyway, right from the get go she was going on about how I was her ‘mate’ and that I was hers’. She quickly got possessive and would be fascinated whenever she was rough with me that the marks wouldn’t heal right away. I think she really liked me ‘wearing’ her mark because to her mind it showed everyone I was hers’. It became clear pretty quickly that she wasn’t able to wrap her head around human conventions like necessary niceties and by that point I’d pretty much given up anyway. Apart from a couple of times right back in the beginning I didn’t bother trying to explain to her that what she was doing was wrong because I thought I deserved it. ‘Consequences, at last!’ I would think,” he chuckled and Derek remained quiet under him.

“I started to get scared of her though,” Stiles’ voice dropped from the forced bravado down to a near whisper again as he stared without really seeing across the rooftop. “The rape was bad enough, but I kept telling myself it was my punishment. Then she started really hurting me beyond scratches and bruises. The first time she seriously injured me was when she lashed out when she was mad; she almost severed my spine and I’ve got the scars to prove it. Before I knew it I was expecting her to kill me every time she raised her hand and I could barely believe how much I wanted her to. Then she started talking about getting herself pregnant so I’d never leave her and taking me somewhere ‘far away’. By that point you and dad were the only things keeping me hanging on; I was already isolated from everyone else. But then,” he couldn’t quell the dry sob that lurched out of him and suddenly Derek’s hands were back on his sides, rubbing gently. “Then I lost you both and there was no point anymore. I finally told her everything I’d wanted to say, and me saying that along with me smelling like you made her snap,” he looked down at Derek, slightly surprised to find Derek’s eyes swimming with tears. “I was going to just let her do it but then I remembered dad and how I didn’t want him to find my body like that and then you came bursting in shortly after.”

Stiles was silent for a long while, trying to sort his thoughts and go through the muddle he’d spilled out to Derek already. Derek seemed to sense that there was more and waited quietly, tears slipping unheeded from the corners of his eyes, across his cheekbones and into his hair.

“Derek,” Stiles continued tiredly. “Every time the door opens I think it’s Malia. Every time I go to sleep I dream about her, or Allison, or the Nogitsune’s memories. Even if Deaton can fix my hands I’ll probably never be physically quite right again, there’s too much scarring, too many broken bones to heal cleanly. My PTSD is so bad the doctors think I’ll never be able to get close to a woman again, so how would I react whenever one bumps into me? Would I scream? Have a panic attack? Attack her? My dad’s almost drunk himself to death over his guilt and may never wake up, Scott always looks at me like he expects one of us to break apart any second and I keep giving Isaac flashbacks. My schoolwork has fallen so far behind that I’ll probably have to retake the year. I haven’t been a part of this pack for so long that Scott’s packbonds don’t affect me anymore. All I’m doing by staying here is hurting myself and the people around me. So please, Derek, please let me go.”

Stiles stayed sitting limply across Derek, knowing there was no point in wasting what little energy he had left in trying to move or make for the ledge himself before Derek made up his mind. Derek himself was silent for a long while, tears gradually stopping as he stared sightlessly up at the sky. If anything Stiles was grateful that he was seriously giving what he’d said thought, instead of just going with his instincts like earlier and instantly shouting a denial.

“Did I ever tell you about what happened to Laura and I after the fire?”

Stiles blinked. That was… unexpected.

“No?” he hazarded. Derek turned his head to look at Stiles, but his eyes were oddly blank; the green/gold/brown that caught the lights on the roof flat and dull.

“Laura used our parent’s credit cards to book a flight to New York, because they’d given us both some to carry in our wallets for emergencies, and we took off before anyone realised what we were planning. Peter was already in the unit he would stay in until he woke by that point and there was nothing more Laura felt we could do for him.

“Once we got to New York we lived rough until Laura turned eighteen. She was petrified that they’d try and take me away from her so we still kept out heads down and rented out this crummy apartment in Brooklyn that we paid for with a dog walking job she and I got,” he snorted a little bitterly. “Once word started to get around that we could handle any dog we didn’t struggle so much to make ends meet. It was still tough and we barely ever had enough to eat but we got by.

“By the time I turned eighteen we’d almost entirely isolated ourselves. The only time we spoke to anyone was for work or to our landlord. Laura finally called our solicitor in Beacon Hills now I was an adult and we got access to the fortune our family and the insurance company had left for us. Laura moved us into a slightly better apartment after I almost fell through the floor where the floorboards had rotted, but other than that we didn’t touch the money.”

He shifted a little, causing the rapt Stiles to sway dangerously, and his hands wrapped around Stiles’ thin waist in a steadying motion.

“After a while though Laura sort of made friends with an old lady who she walked her dog for and she started doing a little better. She started to become interested in things again and started looking into us both doing our GED online. When she tried to talk to me about it she couldn’t understand why I was never interested and we got into several fights. She started to take hers and that made her blossom more; she started talking to more people, going out again, and made a couple of friends although she never brought them to the apartment. I meanwhile just remained stuck, as though the fire had happened yesterday: I only went out when I had to, I only talked to Laura and even then it was mostly just yes or no answers to her questions, and when I had nothing to do I would just sit in my room doing nothing or I would exercise. I seriously did nothing else. I wouldn’t even eat unless Laura made me.”

Stiles was starting to see where this was going and didn’t know how to respond, so he just sat and listened.

“I was denying myself anything good because I didn’t feel I deserved it. Most days I would spend thinking up ways to tell Laura what I’d done so she could rip me apart in her rage, but then I’d be leaving her all alone and I couldn’t do that to her. So instead I continued to pull away; the only times I’d talk to her I’d be resentful and rude. I’d do my work but I wouldn’t do anything else around the apartment. I was doing anything to try to make her sick of me, so she’d drive me away and let me end myself as an omega. Eventually she did snap, but not in the way I expected. She beat me to hell and back when I lost control on a full moon and almost ended up killing some drunks, but then she started screaming about how I was all she had left, and that she knew I was hiding something from her but she didn’t care because she couldn’t stand to lose me. She told me if she didn’t have me she was as good as dead and that she needed me, because apparently without me she wouldn’t have a reason to get up in the morning. It was a wake-up call to me and I decided if I couldn’t live for myself I could live for her.”

Stiles almost jumped out of his skin when Derek lifted a hand to cup his cheek, fixing Stiles with such an intense stare that Stiles felt it ought to burn right through him.

“So believe me, Stiles, when I say I understand what it feels like to want to drive everyone away from you because you’re convinced you’ll somehow end up hurting them just by being with them. I _know_ what it feels like to want to die more than anything and to think you’ll be leaving everyone better off with you gone; when waking up in the morning and realising you’d have to live through another day was the worst sort of agony. When you knew that nothing would ever be able to stop that ache in your chest and just _longing_ to fade away to nothing and be forgotten. I _know_ , Stiles.”

He paused for a moment, eyes focusing on something from long ago while Stiles hardly dared to breathe. Then he snapped back to the present and continued as if he’d never stopped.

“Apart from staying with Laura, neither of us did anything to try to heal the wounds that losing our family inflicted on us for the entirety of the time we were in New York: even though Laura would have felt the drive to expand her pack and to make us stronger she never did, we never sought our professional help like a psychologist or a grief counsellor, nor did we build any strong relationships to the point where we could talk about it. We didn’t even talk to each other about it. On the fire’s anniversary we’d just get ourselves blackout drunk with wolfsbane spiked alcohol.”

He dropped his hand from Stiles’ cheek, but instead hooked his hand back around Stiles’ waist, resting it on the jut of Stiles’ sharp hipbone.

“I didn’t start to make any healthy progress with myself until I ended up back here in Beacon Hills and met you. In the beginning I was reeling over losing Laura, but you’d always yank me out of the depression I was determined to lose myself in through sheer force of will. That snarky mouth of yours damned well saved me. You teased me so much about living in my old home that I moved to the abandoned train depo after I became an alpha. Then you continued to insult me about it until I caved and moved to the loft. You helped me when I was shot and wanted to just give up and die before you even liked me. The only thing that had kept me going up to that point was finding the alpha that killed Laura and getting revenge, then I had every intention of killing myself after. You were the only reason that I didn’t - even before I cared about you, I cared about your opinion of me.”

His lips quirked up into the ghost of a smirk.

“Sure, Scott helped a bit, but it always kept on coming back to you and it drove me mad that I couldn’t figure out how this sarcastic, hyperactive teenager had got so under my skin that I couldn’t go a week without thinking about you. Then you started to really support me, you tried to help my betas even when they were against you, you helped me look for Erica and Boyd all through the summer, you went out of your way to keep me up to date with your information on the alpha pack and the Darach, you were there to stop me going off the deep end when I killed Boyd and you made me want to be _better_ , which was why I stood by Scott in his decision not to kill Deaucalion. Then when everything with the Nogitsune happened to you I spent my time basically stalking Chris to ensure he didn’t try to kill you before we were absolutely certain whether anything could be done to save you or not.”

He sighed so deeply that Stiles felt himself rise and drop a little, something that Derek didn’t even seem to be aware of.

“I’m not saying that it fixed everything, because it didn’t. I still haven’t come to terms with what happened to Laura and I constantly think I see her, and Erica and Boyd, everywhere. I still grieve for my family, I’m still filled with rage and guilt, and there _are_ some days when I really can’t get out of bed because everything just seems so pointless. But even on those days I know I have you and what we’re building between us. I know I have a pack that I can trust and a sister I long thought dead. You’ve saved me so many times, Stiles, but I refused for a long time to let myself think too much on it until I couldn’t anymore. It’s taken me not seeing you when you needed me to, because I was getting so caught up in trying to figure out exactly what you are to me, to make me finally realise. Looking back all the signs of what was happening to you were there and I missed them because I was always too focused on what it might have meant when you looked at me a certain way, or how you phrased your words, or enjoying the conversations we had. I was a fool for being too afraid to admit it to myself sooner, because if I had then maybe my eyes would have cleared enough for me to really see how badly you needed help. I failed you and I’m so, so sorry for that.”

“Made you realise what?”

“What?”

Stiles leaned forward, suddenly feeling as though everything was swinging on Derek’s response.

“Made you realise what? What do you feel for me?”

Instead of giving a direct answer, Derek went off on another tangent and Stiles had to bury the impulse to strangle him.

“Did Scott ever tell you about how his wolf reacted towards Allison?”

Allison’s name sent a shudder through Stiles, but it didn’t leave him feeling quite so desolate as usual, maybe because he was trying to think of an answer to Derek’s question at the same time.

“Well, she was his anchor,” Derek shook his head.

“Close but not quite. Go on.”

Stiles thought some more, but his mind felt to sluggish and detached that it took a while.

“He was always going on about her scent, even more than her looks sometimes,” Derek shook his head again and Stiles was starting to feel tired of this game.

“He always said he could hear her, like her heartbeat, even beyond what you guys should be able to hear, and he’s been able to pick her out in a crowd by the sound of it alone.”

Derek nodded.

“That’s right; being able to hear a person’s heartbeat way beyond what is possible is very telling for a werewolf.”

“How so?” Stiles wasn’t surprised to realise that the conversation was draining away his energy a little bit at a time; soon he wouldn’t be able to move again and he wondered if Derek knew and was drawing it out on purpose. His pleading to Derek combined with the nuclear bombs of information Derek was willingly revealing about himself were rocking Stiles to his core, overloading his already exhausted mind and leaving him fighting off sleep.

He knew it would take him a long while to wrap his head around the concept of Derek being suicidal. Realistically it made sense after everything Derek had been through, but Derek in his own way had always seemed so unbeatable; you could knock him down, take everything away from him, crush him, and he’d still get back up. Stiles wondered how much of that was the persona that Derek wanted everyone to see, and not actually him.

That certainly seemed to be the case now as Derek looked younger and more vulnerable than Stiles had ever seen.

“Derek,” he called out to him, softly, desperately; his last stretch to grasp for something before giving up once again and falling back into the darkness for good.

Derek must have picked up the undertone in Stiles’ voice because the expression on his face turned from vulnerable to determined, while still remaining startlingly young.It was so easy to forget most of the time that he was only a handful of years older than Stiles.

“It means that that person is special to the werewolf. Very special. As in potential mate special.”

Stiles gawped down at Derek, his whole world shifting on its axis.

Malia had claimed him as her mate, but the way she had gone about it made it seem like she thought they’d always been ‘destined’ for each other and were each other’s one and only; the idea that it was something that could be built up as naturally as a couple building up towards seeing if they wanted to become serious with each other or not was astounding to Stiles. That is if he was understanding what Derek was saying correctly.

“So you’re saying that the whole mating thing isn’t that whole ‘destined to be’ soulmate crap?”

Derek looked offended.

“What? No, of course not. A werewolf’s mate has to prove themselves as loyal, trustworthy, brave, and willing to go the extra mile. Sure, there can be the initial attraction, but a werewolf’s two sides will only agree with each other in seeing someone as a potential mate if they believe them worthy of it. It goes the same in the opposite direction. If the werewolf is interested but the other is not then they must back down. There’s no point to a mating bond if it’s not one hundred percent consensual on both sides.”

While Stiles was relieved by the idea of true mates being consensual, something was niggling at him.

“Scott started to be able to hear Allison’s heart almost immediately. You said the potential mate has to prove themselves first.”

Derek nodded, and Stiles was struck by how bizarre they must look having a very serious and complex conversation while Derek lay on the ground with Stiles, covered in bandages, with an arm and a leg in a cast and wrapped in a flimsy hospital gown, sat astride him.

“True, there are cases though of some werewolves confusing attraction with potential mate and the wolf side misinterprets. That’s why Scott latched on to Allison as his anchor. He was too new to know better.”

“So why are you bringing this up now? I already feel guilty enough about Allison.”

Derek looked pained.

“I didn’t mean it like that; I just wanted to give you an example before I went further.”

“Well go on then.”

Derek sat up so suddenly that Stiles almost fell backwards. Then two hands were latching around him and steadied him before he could hit the ground.

“Sorry, it felt too weird to continue like that,” Derek apologised but didn’t remove his hands.

“Did you wonder how I got to you so much sooner when Malia was attacking you?” he asked.

Stiles wanted to groan out ‘not another question’ but he was also trying to ride out the waves of pain-filled memories that ran through his mind without them becoming full-fledged flashbacks or them pushing him into another panic attack.

“I’ve been a little bit preoccupied,” he all but snapped and Derek shifted slightly in contrition, carefully sliding Stiles into a more comfortable position in his lap so he could wrap his arms more easily around him.

“Yeah, sorry.”

Maybe Stiles was already dead. It was the only logical explanation he could think of to justify the amount of times Derek had voluntarily said ‘sorry’ to him.

“After you came to the loft that night,” Derek continued softly, oblivious to Stiles thoughts. “I was angry and upset, so I went for a run to clear my head. I drove out to the Preserve, shifted, and then lost myself for a while. I was miles deep in the woods when I heard you.”

“Heard me?” Stiles couldn’t help but ask even though he knew what the answer had to be after the whole conversation about Scott and Allison. He just couldn’t dare admit it. He needed to hear the words come from Derek’s mouth.

“Your heartbeat.”

Stiles instinctively sucked in a great, gasping breath, forgetting momentarily about his lung and ribs. They were more than happy to remind him though as his breath caught, pain flared (showing that his magic was wearing off by the minute) and he was reduced to a trembling, coughing mess, horribly afraid that his lung was going to collapse again under the pressure. Somehow it held.

Derek pulled him closer, until not even air particles could get between where they were pressed together in one long line of heat. He gently guided Stiles’ head to rest on his shoulder and then rubbed a hand carefully up and down Stiles’ back as Stiles tried to rid out the coughing, tears squeezing from his eyes and dampening the henley his cheek was pressed into.

The smell coming from it, from Derek, combined with the soothing comfort of the hand and the fact that Derek was holding him as though he was the most precious thing in the world made Stiles feel something he hadn’t thought he’d feel again: loved.

It was too much, Stiles squeezed his eyes tightly shut, making red bursts explode across the inside of his eyelids.

He didn’t want Derek to finish was he was saying because it was making his resolve crumble.

No matter how much he still felt as though he should step off that roof, the rising desire to stay wrapped in Derek’s arms was fast overtaking that, and if he didn’t have that goal anymore then what was it that defined him? He was just a broken boy who didn’t know who he was anymore. Without ending his life as his one goal there was nothing, he was nothing, and that terrified him more than Malia ever could.

Unaware, as his thoughts were taking up all of his attention, Stiles was somehow burrowing even closer into Derek’s warmth, it being the only thing grounding him in that moment.

He didn’t like feeling like this. He wished desperately for the apathy to come back and was rather shaken at how Derek had so effortlessly ripped it away.

The last of Stiles’ coughing eased and now that the jarring, disorientating motion was gone he could feel Derek draining the pain slowly through where his hand rested on Stiles’ back and it was such a relief that Stiles couldn’t bring himself to stop him. Instead he turned his head and nuzzled sleepily into Derek’s neck.

Derek jerked ever so slightly before tilting his head a little, dipping his chin down to brush over the top of Stiles’ head, encasing Stiles even more in the warmth and safety of his body and a soft, pleased sounding rumble vibrated through his chest and into Stiles, who found himself surprised to feel so calmed by the sound.

As though realising Stiles was focused once again Derek continued.

“It wasn’t the first time I’ve heard your heart from farther away than I should have been able to, but those other times you were still relatively close enough that I could fool myself into believing it was simply because I had the closest relationship with you out of anyone in the pack. However that was irrefutable. I was miles away from you and yet I could hear your heart beating so clearly you might as well have been standing next to me. I wasn’t really surprised, because I’d known but had been denying how I was starting to feel for you. Hearing you like that really gave me no other option than to admit it. Then-” he broke off, arms wrapping more tightly around Stiles again and dropping his chin further so his beard tickled the side of Stiles’ face. “Then your heart started to speed up so much that I thought it would burst. There were so many reasons as to why your heart was doing that, but I _knew_ that it meant you were in trouble and started to run. I had just reached the edge of the Preserve when you heart suddenly started to jump erratically and then slow. I was almost at your house, terrified out of my mind, when your magical plea went through my head. By that point I could hear Malia and when I realised it was _her_ who was hurting you I almost lost control entirely, I wanted to kill her so badly.”

He paused to take several deep breaths, calming himself.

“There was so much blood,” his words came out in a stricken croak. “And you looked so broken. I couldn’t see any way in which you could be put back together again without Scott turning you, and I felt like I’d lost you before I’d even had the chance-” he broke off, his voice shaking.

Stiles carefully extracted his head out from under Derek’s bowed one and sat a little straighter, non-verbally trying to prompt Derek to look at him.

After a moment pale, tired eyes met his own and Stiles gave an encouraging ‘go on’ gesture, positive his voice would fail him in that moment.

Then he had the privilege of seeing Derek gather his courage and lay himself bare before Stiles.

“Before I’d even had the chance to tell you that I was falling in love with you.”

Stiles had always expected to feel overwhelmed in some way the first time someone ever told him that they were falling in love with him, perhaps followed by ecstatic exuberance and wanting to shout it from the rooftops. Instead he felt as though every part of him had let out a small sigh of relief and a soft, deep feeling of contentment settled through him.

He knew the feeling wouldn’t last; you couldn’t just shrug off severe depression, but in that moment he felt the best he’d felt for longer than he cared to remember.

“Stiles?”

Stiles opened eyes he didn’t realised he’d closed and saw Derek looking at him cautiously.

He appreciated how much Derek had laid on the line by telling him. Even for a normal person telling someone they loved them was a terrifying notion, but for Derek it was doubly so after everything he’d been through.

If Stiles had been a different person, or had felt differently, he could so easily crush Derek with this information. Hurt him in a way he wouldn’t be able to come back from. But even the idea of it was so repulsive to Stiles that he buried the thought as soon as it surfaced.

Instead he leaned forward until his forehead rested against Derek’s.

“I’ve been falling for you too,” was all he could say before he pulled back enough to watch Derek’s reaction.

It didn’t disappoint: Derek continued to look nervous for a moment as what Stiles had said slowly sank past his automatic denial of everything good that happens to him and he gradually started to look stunned instead. He blinked at Stiles, the silent ‘really?’ screaming from every inch of him and Stiles nodded, then the blinding grin that split Derek’s face made Stiles feel as though he was watching the sun rise for the first time. Derek should always be able to smile like that.

Stiles had used to dream about the moment that followed the love confession as well. It used to involve Lydia, a tearful, heartfelt confession, and then a sweet, perfect kiss.

The only kiss Stiles received was the one Derek pressed carefully against his forehead, mindful of the cuts, before pulling him back into his arms, and Stiles was more than fine with that. Anything more would have probably been too much.

They sat there wrapped up in each other for long enough that the last of Stiles’ magic wore off and he was a frustrating mixture of physical pain, gratefulness, fear, and disappointment. Derek, typical of him, picked up on exactly what he was feeling almost immediately and shifted his head up until his chin was resting on the top of Stiles’ head in a position both of them found familiar and comforting, while also sliding his hand around so it touched the bare skin of Stiles’ back between the hospital gown slits and above his boxers to drain him of some of his pain. Stiles was too far gone to do anything but sigh in relief.

“I don’t expect you to suddenly feel better, it would be impossible for anyone to just suddenly be okay after this even with a love confession; but please could you consider trying to talk to me, or that Doctor Khatri, or your dad, or Scott, or anyone you feel you can trust if you feel like you’re going to attempt suicide again?”

Stiles thought about it and eventually came up with the only acceptable answer.

“Only if you promise me the same. You might not try to step off a ledge like me, but you always run into fights with the stupidest mentality. You never seem to care if you get hurt and you never seem to care if something will kill you.”

Derek paused for only a few seconds before responding.

“That’s fair.”

Then something Derek had said registered with Stiles and the contentment dissipated in the guilt of forgetting for a few minutes.

“And I don’t know if I’ll be… able to talk to my dad again.”

Derek let out a sudden snarl that had Stiles jerking away from his as best as he was able instinctively; the familiar sound so close to him, caused by something he said, making his heart lurch horribly in his chest before it started pounding. He couldn’t actually get any further though, too weak to do anything more than keep his upper body upright and even that was a struggle without Derek to support him.

In an instant Derek was there again though, his hands wrapping carefully around Stiles’ biceps and keeping his steady.

“Damnit, no, sorry. I wasn’t growling at you, I just realised that I’d forgotten to tell you about your dad and was angry with myself.”

Stiles’ heart lurched again.

“What about my dad? Derek?”

Derek frowned before pulling him in again.

“Your dad showed significant improvement after Deaton visited him, the doctors think he’ll wake up tomorrow. They can’t say exactly when but he’s definitely going to be fine.”

This time Stiles did get the overwhelming rush of feelings: intense relief, guilt, love, fear, anger, and pretty much everything in between. He wrapped his arms as best he could around Derek’s neck and just hung on for the ride while over it all a voice was chanting ‘ _he’s going to be fine, he’s going to be fine, he’s going to be fine_.’

Stiles couldn’t say how much time had passed before he calmed enough to realised that a sizable portion of Derek’s shirt was now damp with his tears and probably his snot too. He mumbled out an apology which Derek hushed and said was fine and realised he was in significant danger of falling asleep on Derek’s shoulder right there on the rooftop.

The last hour or so had more than taken every last ounce of energy, physical, mental, and emotional, from him with how much he’d gone through, from trying to take his own life, to his first love confession that went both ways, to hearing that his dad would be okay.

It wasn’t a cold night, far from it, but Stiles had nothing left inside of him to warm himself. If it wasn’t for the heat blasting from Derek’s body, Stiles would be a popsicle by now.

He’d been defeated in every way: he’d had to give up on the idea of suicide, he’d have to give up on his physical ability of looking after himself and put his trust in Derek to look after him for the time being, and he’d had to give up on the idea of beating himself up over letting his dad put himself in such a dangerous position. But maybe it was okay.

“D’rk, m’tired.”

Derek hummed lightly, which really was such a ludicrously calming sensation to feel.

“You okay with me carrying you to your room?”

“Yeah.”

So very carefully, Derek shifted Stiles around until he was able to scoop his hands under Stiles’ knees and around his back respectively then with an easy grace pushed himself to his feet with Stiles secure in his arms. Even knowing of Derek’s incredible strength and how much weight he himself had lost, Stiles still couldn’t help being impressed with how effortlessly Derek carried him.

“Derek?” Stiles whispered as Derek started to navigate his way across the roof.

“Yeah?”

“Is it gonna be okay? Can I go back to who I was? Fix myself so everything’s better?”

“Honestly, Stiles, you’re never going to be able to go back to quite how you were before. Trauma like this never leaves you and it changes you too much, but it becomes manageable and you can learn to be happy again. Unlike me you’ve got a great support system to help you through this first, most difficult phase. I never had anyone to lean on or talk to; Laura was as traumatised as me, we didn’t let ourselves get close to anyone, and neither of us ever even suggested trying therapy. It was really only after I came back here and I started forming healthy bonds with you and Scott and the others that I realised I was making more progress than I’d made in the last six years combined. So how about I do this with you? We can learn to stop blaming ourselves and heal together.”

With a fuzzy mind Stiles thought over the idea of tackling the murky world of recovery with Derek at his side, understanding what he was feeling better than anyone else, and the both of them there to support the other.

“I’d like that.”

“Good,” Derek smirked as he reached the door and somehow managed to balance Stiles in one arm while he got the door open. “Because I was planning on planning on doing my ‘creepy sourwolf routine’ as you so fondly call it to ensure you were doing everything the doctors told you.”

Stiles let out a light snort, even as he let his eyes slid almost completely shut and let his head sink against Derek’s chest.

“I’ve been wondering when that side of you would come out again. You must be going into withdrawal by now.”

When Derek didn’t respond, Stiles cracked an eyelid and glanced up at Derek’s face, finding his cheeks sporting a soft blush under the stubble.

“Derek?”

Derek coughed.

“Actually, I’ve been in the hospital every night since you told me to leave you alone. I’ve still been keeping an eye on you, just this time it was out of your sight.”

“Creeper wolf,” Stiles said fondly and Derek gave him a soft smile.

“That’s how I got to the roof so quick; I was just coming up from checking on you dad with the good news when I found your bed empty and I couldn’t wake Scott. I tried to follow your scent but I couldn’t reach you, my way kept getting blocked by what I’m guessing was your magic, but then it started to fade and after a while I could get through. Then I came out onto the roof to find you standing right on the edge and I realised what you were about to do-”

Even though Stiles didn’t have the incredible senses of the werewolves, he would have to be blind and deaf to not notice how Derek was getting increasingly upset the more he talked about what he saw and had only just managed to stop.

The guilt twisted a little deeper as he really started to comprehend how much his depression was skewing his grasp on reality. Even if everyone else would be happier with him gone, which he was now starting to doubt, Derek and his dad he was now positive would have been devastated.

So it was with a shaking hand that he raised to press his numb fingers to Derek’s lips, halting his words.

“Sorry,” was all he could say.

Derek paused in his steps and dropped another kiss onto Stiles’ forehead, who felt the heat seep out from that point and into his skin, warming him right down to his bones. He could get used to this.

“It’s okay,” Derek reassured and continued on his way.

At the late hour they didn’t pass anyone in the corridors, although Stiles felt that Derek was probably manoeuvring them around any patrolling night staff to avoid confrontations and he tried to mentally remind himself to thank Derek later.

When they reached Stiles’ room it was only after Derek set him carefully back on the bed did Stiles remember Scott.

The chair that the young alpha had occupied was empty and Stiles knew his magic would have withdrawn from him quite a while ago.

As Derek started to re-attach the machines Stiles had to ask.

“Where’s Scott? My spell or whatever should have worn off from him by now.”

Derek paused and looked confused for a second before one side of his lips quirked up and he nodded towards the edge of the bed.

“He’s down there.”

Of course after Derek had said that Stiles insisted on Derek helping him lean over so he could peer over the edge of the mattress and he was greeted to the sight of Scott curled up half under his bed, snoring gently.

“He told me the other day that he’s been having nightmares again. He hasn’t slept properly since you were admitted.”

Stiles wondered if the guilt that grew heavier with each new bit of information he got now that his head was a little clearer would ever ease.

“Do you think I should tell him?”

Derek paused in easing the oxygen tubes back over Stiles’ ears.

“That’s a tricky question. I do think it’s best to tell him and your dad at least, but they’re both so burned out right now that it could do them more harm than good. Maybe you should talk to Doctor Khatri when she comes by tomorrow, she’ll be able to advise you better than me, I’m sure.”

“No one can advise me better than you,” Stiles said around a yawn and then drank in Derek’s small but pleased smile with drooping eyes.

Finally finished re-attaching the equipment, Derek leant forward to drop yet another kiss on Stiles’ forehead, who wondered if this was going to become another of the pleasant habits Derek had developed with him, like hooking his chin over the top of Stiles’ head.

“We can figure it all out in the morning. Get some sleep, I’ll be right here.”

“’We’,” Stiles murmured as he drifted away with the waves of exhaustion. “I like the sound of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! *throws flower petals everywhere*


	14. We Whisper Together

Dr Khatri didn’t react to the news that Stiles had almost successfully killed himself in quite the way Stiles would have imagined.

While she was saddened that Stiles had felt as though that was the only option left for him she said it wasn’t a surprise given what he’d been through and his state of mind. She’d thought she’d have a little more time given his injuries to hopefully talk him out of making the attempt, so she’d been very thankful to Derek for stopping him.

What threw Stiles though was how excited she was on two fronts:

The first was the magic he’d managed to do to get himself up to the roof un-accosted and how she believed that the equivalent exchange the magic was taking from it was the fact that Stiles had lived when he’d used it to help him die.

Both Stiles and Derek (who Stiles had demanded to be allowed to stay for the session even though it was technically against hospital policy) learned that morning that Dr Khatri and Deaton had been having extensive talks about the depth of Stiles’ power but hadn’t been able to agree on anything concrete besides the fact that Stiles was stronger than average for the stage he was at in accessing it.

Now though they would have spell length, strength, and numbers to work with while comparing it to Stiles physical, mental and emotional state at the time, which gave them much more to work with. Even before ‘crunching the numbers’ as Dr Khatri had referred to it with relish, she could confirm that Stiles was way above what was typical and if correctly trained might even be powerful enough to become a mage rather than a druid. (When questioned about the difference between the two Dr Khatri had dismissively said that Deaton would be the better person to explain it properly before jumping on to the other thing she was so delighted about.)

The second point the good doctor almost lost all professional decorum over when she excitedly explained the breakthrough Stiles had apparently had the night before.

"Now that you have not only admitted yourself just how bad you feel, but have also made such a connection with Derek and now know that you can rely on him to be there for you and vice versa is huge. A patient can go for years without making very much headway because they are unable to even admit to themselves what it is they’re feeling and why, due in part the disassociation that they feel in connection to their emotions. You not only made one, but two enormous breakthroughs last night and I feel that I can move onto the next stage of your treatment now."

Derek and Stiles glanced at each other, Derek gripping Stiles’ unbroken hand a little more firmly and giving him a proud smile. Stiles tentatively smiled back before turning to face Dr Khatri.

"Before we get started on that, Doctor, I really need to ask your advice on what I should do regarding my, er, suicide attempt. Both Derek and you now know, but should I tell Scott and my dad? Both of them have been really badly affected by everything that happened to me; they both feel that they’ve failed me, my dad especially, and both of them are in really fragile places because of it," he nodded towards Derek. “Derek here feels the same, but since we had such a revealing talk last night I think he knows that he can talk to me about his concerns without him having to worry that I’ll buckle under the weight of them. We’re both in many ways in a similar emotional and mental state, so I feel we’ll be able to understand each other's difficulties better than most, whereas with dad and Scott I think they feel that I wouldn't be able to cope with them talking to me about how they're feeling.”

He sighed, trying to come up with the right words to explain how Scott and his dad had been treating him.

“They've been basically treating me as if I’m made from bone china, and I get it,” he gestured with his better arm to his near skeletal frame. “I look like a gust of wind would shatter me right now and up until today I _have_ been in a very brittle emotional state. But they’ve been so careful around me, are spending so much time thinking about every word that comes out of their mouth and censoring it if they think it'll be too much for me, that they're hurting themselves.

“Maybe before last night I wasn't ready for them to lean on me a little, but now the more I think of it the more I think it will do me as well as them some good. I'm just scared and concerned that revealing such a big thing to them, that I came so close to killing myself, will hurt them in a way that I won't ever be able to fix. So should I leave this between the three of us here? Or should I tell them? I'd like to tell them, but I also don't want to hurt them any more than I already have.”

Dr Khatri was quiet for quite some time, mulling over everything that Stiles just told her, and Stiles appreciated that she was taking the time to think on it rather than just quote out a section that she'd memorised from one of her psychology books.

“You're right in that this is a very delicate situation,” she began. “And if this isn't handled correctly it could indeed end up harming them in a way that could cause long-term repercussions. I've been told by Dr Brillington that your father is awake and keeps trying to leave his bed so that he can come and see you, in which his plans are being continually hampered by nurse McCall. The thing that he is most focused on right now is not his own health but yours.”

She stood up and went over to the window, gazing out with complete composure, as though she were going over her grocery list rather than discussing such a fragile topic.

“The problem with telling friends and relatives about something as serious as a suicide attempt is that if you to leave it a while, even if it is done with the best intentions, the friends or family members can feel like you didn't trust them with such important information. It can cause rifts in relationships that in many ways can be harder to repair than the knowledge of the suicide attempt itself. If they know straight away, while it might devastate them it can still give them a clear goal, a focus if you will, in which they can support you to the best of their abilities. They’ll want to help you get better, of course, but they’ll also want you to feel that you can go to them when you're at your worst as well.”

She paused a few moments, thinking things over a little more before moving over to the table to pour herself a glass of water and taking a few sips.

“I think it would be in everybody's best interest if you were to tell them sooner rather than later. I think you'll find that even when they’re like this they’re still stronger than you might think, and I believe it will go a long way in getting them to admit to their own problems and to start actively trying to do something to counter them.”

Stiles hadn’t considered that. The idea she was presenting of this hopefully helping his dad finally facing up to his drinking problem out of denial of his depression, as well as Scott ending his half-heartedness in learning how to be an alpha. Well, if there was even a chance of that happening then Stiles had to try.

Dr Khatri gave him a small smile and nod in recognition of his rising determination.

“I'd like to suggest that you and I do it with them individually, so you can give the both of them your full attention. I will be there as firstly a medical professional and secondly a neutral party, but it will also give me a chance to offer my services to them for their issues. Frankly, I’d also like to get Scott’s go ahead to start working with all of the pack,” she paused for a second, her eyes sliding to Derek, who looked back at her a little warily.

Her smile this time had a slightly sharp, yet playful edge to it and Stiles found himself repressing a sigh. What was it about Derek that made older, powerful women want to tease the hell out of him?

“Considering the progress you in Derek have made in the last twelve hours I think it could be very beneficial to you if he were there too,” the playful smile dropped and then she was gazing earnestly at them. “Of course these are just suggestions, everything is up to the both of you.”

Stiles felt Derek squeezed his hand reassuringly again and he found himself nodding.

“I think your suggestion is better than anything we've been able to come up with, so let's go with that.”

xXx

This time it had gone roughly as Stiles had anticipated.

Both his dad and Scott had at first been horrified then upset then grateful he was still there then almost falling over themselves to thank Derek, and then finally swaying backwards and forwards between bone deep relief, anger, and an intense stubbornness to never let things get that bad again. Both promised Stiles that he could come to them about anything, the matter how big or small, in the future. Both of them readily agreed to start getting treatment from Dr Khatri when she calmly suggested it, pointing out that their own issues were hindering their support for Stiles without coming across as patronising or aggressive.

If Stiles hadn’t been head over heels for Derek he probably would have fallen a little bit in love with her as he watched her masterfully guide them in the direction they needed to go for their own sake, but were too stubborn to see.

It had been just as easy for Dr Khatri to gain permission from Scott to approach the rest of the pack. All he asked was that if they truly didn’t want her help that she not try to force it. She had agreed and Stiles could all but see her doing the mental equivalent of cracking her knuckles in preparation.

By the end of the day Stiles had burst into exhausting yet cathartic tears no less than four separate times; the first when he was telling his dad and his dad had told him that he didn't hate him for doing such thing, the second time was when Scott told him exactly the same thing. The third time was when he and Derek had been left alone for a while to regroup and it had all simply become a bit too much. Then the fourth time was when the four of them had gathered together back in his room and Stiles had looked around and realised he was surrounded by people who loved him with every fibre of their being, and would do anything to protect him, and for the first time in a long time he allowed himself to believe it and know it to be true. So if the fourth time the other three hadn't held their tears back either, well, that would be something kept between them.

The days that followed were not easy, there is no ‘easy’ in any form of recovery, but they were better.

Stiles' body started responding positively to all the medicine and the healing he was receiving, both from the hospital and from Deaton, which delighted everyone. Derek had been able to coax him into starting to eat again, and allowed Stiles all the grumbling he wanted about the foul taste of the porridge/gruel/soup horror. If anything Stiles’ body, now his mind was on board with getting better, started healing so quickly that Dr Brillington almost started to get suspicious.

Dr Khatri did as she said and stepped her therapy with Stiles up to the next level, which was now that he had acknowledged how bad he was feeling he could start to learn how to channel the emotions and the long stretches of time when he was still apathetic into something if not more positive, then something that wouldn't drag him any deeper. The doctor didn't try to sugar-coat just how difficult and long the process would be, which Stiles was grateful for even though he already knew that there would probably be times in the future when he would curse her over it.

One thing that he was already finding both frustrating and rewarding was his trying to open up emotionally to the rest of the pack outside of Derek.

With his dad it could quickly become overwhelming for one or the both of them, whereas with Lydia it was almost too easy since she always remained so calm, supportive, and had also read every psychology book based on recovering from an abusive relationship that she had been able to get her hands on in such a short amount of time. So, for example, Stiles would become exacerbated to the point of tears with something as simple as not being able to reach the remote his bed and once he had calmed and opened his mouth to apologise, Lydia would already be there breaking down how she understood exactly why he would react in such a way to things so there was no reason for him to apologise or try to explain it away to her.

It was sometimes infuriating, but when Lydia had tentatively started to talk to him about her own sessions with Dr Khatri, and how it was how she was coping with coming to terms with her guilt over letting Stiles down due to having been unable to let go of her grief over losing Allison, nor the horrific events she had been dragged through over the past almost two years, well, Stiles just couldn’t stay mad at her; he still loved her after all, just not romantically anymore.

Scott on the other hand was another story.

Perhaps it was because he was so bighearted, or it might have been because he was still trying to wrap his head around how he had missed the fact that his oldest friend, his _brother_ , had been abused for months without him realising, but Scott was continually either too over-emotional or too under-responsive. He was trying though and after several very frustrating days for the two of them they had sat down (or in Stiles’ case remained lying down,) with Dr Khatri and at her gentle prompting talked it over. It ended with them coming to the agreement that if Scott felt lost in how to treat Stiles he could ask Stiles what he wanted him to do, or to ask Stiles to describe what it was he was feeling in a way he could comprehend.

After agreeing Scott had asked almost instantly for Stiles to explain the apathy that he was still experiencing most of the time, finally admitting that when Stiles got like that Scott felt as though he was talking to a stranger in his friend’s body and found it a real struggle. He didn’t mention the Nogitsune, but he didn’t need to.

Knowing that Scott responded best things explained in a very visual manner, Stiles had responded by saying it was as though he were sitting on a dock, watching the water, and his emotions were fish; one would rise close enough to the surface that the sunlight would catch it, drawing Stiles’ eye, but just as he was starting to appreciate its beauty it would be gone, swimming back down into the murky depths and out of his reach.

Scott, to everyone’s delight, finally understood, saying that he'd experienced something similar after Allison's death that had significantly decreased as the months had passed, but still surfaced from time to time. Stiles, with Dr Khatri’s help, explained that it was called disassociation, and they had spent the rest of their time together puzzling over the intricacies of human emotions, which had prompted Scott to explain why he'd draw away from Stiles so much.

(Dr Khatri by this point couldn’t help beaming ecstatically every now and again, over the moon at the progress they were making.)

It had turned out that he hadn't been blaming Stiles for Allison's death at all. Rather, he had been stressing out so much over how to help Stiles, who he could see was suffering (from what he thought was merely the aftereffects of what had happened with the Nogitsune), while struggling to manage his own depression, that it just got to the point that he'd panic whenever he saw Stiles and would run away. Then when Stiles didn't try to approach Scott in return, Scott had thought that Stiles was the one who wanted him to stay away. The next thing he knew he hadn't even been able to meet Stiles’ eyes anymore, and even while he realised how much their relationship had deteriorated he just didn't know how to fix it.

Eventually, utterly lost, Scott had just gone along with it, too lost in his own problems to try anything more than telling himself occasionally that it would all work itself out somehow.

Then Derek had told him about the pack bonds and Scott had thought that if he fixed them, that it would fix things between him and Stiles as well and he’d thrown himself heart and soul into it, all but forcing Derek to help him around the clock. However, once he’d achieved control over the pack bonds and had seen improvement in the others, Scott had had to fact the grim realisation that his pack bond to Stiles was so faint that it didn’t seem to have any impact on Stiles at all. So he’d despaired and lost himself in denial again.

Scott had been in tears by the end, apologising over and over again for being such a terrible friend, and Stiles had found one of the easiest things he’d had to do in a long time was to slide his good arm over and take Scott’s hand, while giving him a small smile and telling him that he was forgiven.

So far their agreement was working well.

The situation between Stiles and Derek was one that they didn't look at too closely for the time being. Both now knew where they stood with each other and so there wasn't any pressure to rush into anything. So far nothing has progressed past a few forehead kisses, nuzzling, and handholding, and both were more than happy with that.

They continued to talk a lot and very openly about anything and everything under the sun, so when after almost a week to the day since Stiles’ suicide attempt and subsequent love confession, Derek had stumbled into Stiles’ room in the afternoon during Parrish’s shift and collapsed into a shaking ball on the edge of Stiles’ bed, somehow managing to safely burrow under or over all of the wires and drips without disturbing anything, Stiles did nothing more than wrap his good arm around him, plant a gentle kiss on his head, and tell him he was proud of him. He did nothing more, returning unfazed to the book he had open in his lap, until Parrish couldn't help voicing his concerns over whether Derek was okay or not and if they need to do something.

“I know what this is,” Stiles had said. “He needs to come through this on his own; he'll talk when he's ready,” and Parrish had to leave it at that, even though the frustration in doing nothing and knowing nothing was clear on his face.

Derek didn't move for the rest of Parrish’s stay, although he gradually stopped shaking. He kept his head buried against Stiles’ side in a way that he wouldn't have been able to a week ago, one arm wrapped carefully even now around Stiles’ waist, and his legs tucked up as close to himself as possible with his feet hanging off the edge of the bed. He didn't speak, didn't do anything, not the tiniest twitch, until long after Parrish had left.

When he finally stirred the evening was drawing in, painting the room gold.

“How are you feeling?” Stiles asked gently, his hand stroking softly through Derek's hair, quietly delighting that his fingers were now sensitive enough to feel it.

“Raw,” Derek muttered into his side. “Like every part of my insides have been scratched half to death and then had lemon juice poured into the wounds.”

Stiles winced in sympathy.

“It hurts,” Derek continued. “But in a way that feels somehow clean, as though now the infection has been washed out everything can actually start to heal.”

Stiles dropped another kiss on to Derek's head and continued to run his fingers through his hair. They remain silence as the sun fully set, the sky continued to darken to a rich blue, and the stars started to appear.

“When I get out of here I'm going to take you stargazing,” Stiles whispered into the quiet room.

“I'd like that,” Derek said as he shifted, turning his head and lifting it to rest against Stiles’ bicep so he could look out of the window as well.

There was silent for a while longer, both utterly comfortable with the other and under no pressure to be anyone but themselves.

“I think I always knew that the first therapy session would be awful to experience, which was why I probably put it off for so long and tried to fool myself into thinking that it was perfectly okay to wake up and be disappointed that I'd woken up.”

“Yeah, Doctor Khatri pulls no punches,” Stiles smirked.

“You're right there. I think there was a couple of times when I was more afraid of her that I was of my memories,” Derek chuckled before becoming serious once again. “I'm glad I did it though. I think it'll be hard for a long time yet, but I think that with her help we'll both get there.”

“Did she get the chance to talk to you about the different types of therapy that she offered?”

Derek nodded.

“For the meantime she wants me to continue with the normal counselling, but she suggested that Cognitive Behaviour Therapy and Mindfulness could really work for me in the future.”

Stiles hummed an agreement.

“She said the same thing to me but that I might also benefit from something called Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing therapy, or something like that, she also referred to it as EMDR which is much less of a mouthful.”

“What the hell is that?”

“I'm not entirely sure, she explained it to me but honestly it kind of went over my head. As far as I could make out it’s something that can really work, but no one’s sure exactly _why_ it works. I'll look into it once I can research it more but right now that's impossible for me, so I’ve set Lydia on it. I’m sure she'll get back to me with an encyclopaedia’s worth of knowledge about it and will want to try it herself on me.”

Derek gave a small chuckle.

“I'm sure she will. She seems to really be thriving now that you're asking her to help with things for you.”

“Do you think so?”

Derek shifted so he could look up at Stiles a little more, his eyes catching the moonlight shining into the room.

“Yeah, when you were first admitted and she realised that she had missed all of the signs of abuse she almost completely shut down. Scott told me that she seem to spend most of the time beating herself up about it. When he tried to help her, she in her typical Lydia way almost bit his head off, saying something about how she should have been smart enough to realise what was going on.”

“Dammit,” Stiles groaned, wishing he could rub his bad hand over his face in frustration as his good hand was still occupied stroking through Derek's hair.

“It's okay. I think when you're out of here, and emotionally in a better place it will be good for the two of you to sit down and talk about it, but right now she's just delighted that you are doing better and that she can be useful to you.”

Stiles did want to talk to her about it immediately because while Lydia had admitted her guilt to him, she had been purposely vague over how she’d been directly after Stiles had been put in the hospital. All he could remember was her pale face fixed in a determined expression as she’d flicked through his chart, memorising every broken bone and abrasion to torment herself with. It was the only bit she’d come clean on since he’d pressed her about so blatantly doing something that could get her into serious trouble. Knowing that there was more bothered him, but he saw the sense in Derek's words.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “I'm doing it as soon as I can though.”

Derek smirked.

“Well you wouldn't be you if you didn't.”

They fell silent again and after a while Stiles noticed that Derek's breathing had evened out into the familiar pattern of sleep, leaving him to the thoughts racing through his mind.

He really did have to sit down and have individual talks with his pack mates once he was out of the hospital; Lydia, Isaac, and Kira especially. Strangely enough he also felt he needed to talk to Peter, but the man was still missing and no one was sure if he was even in Beacon Hills anymore. Stiles had the feeling that he would be back though given what was said in their last conversation.

Things with his dad was still very fragile, but Melissa had assured him that she was keeping a close eye on the Sheriff and had hooked a more than willing Parrish into doing the same thing at the station as well. Stiles was going to have to sit down and have a long talk with her as well, she more than deserved it.

Scott was both easy and hard, and would continue to be for a long time to come. Their relationship had deteriorated to a level it had never been to before and neither was sure that they would ever be able to bring it back to what it once was. Relationships changed naturally though, and if everything went according to plan and Stiles managed to ensure that he didn't have to repeat junior year they would both more than likely be heading off to different colleges in a little over a year's time.

There had definitely been a shift in their relationship, even before the whole mess with the Nogitsune and Malia. They were both older, wiser, and had gone through so many life or death situations both together and apart that things couldn't help but change between them.

Stiles didn't think that there was anything that Scott could ever really do to make him hate him, but they were learning to stand on their own and settle into the men that they would soon be, no longer needing to continually lean on each other for support, too afraid to face the world alone, and while it stung a little that was the way it should be.

Finally there was Stiles' relationship Derek.

While admitting how they felt about each other had helped the both of them enormously, the two of them were still only in the early days of learning how to live with the debilitating traumas they had both been through that left deep scars on their psyche.

They were both having to learn each other’s triggers, and they would both have to learn how to deal with each other on the bad days as well as the good. They would have to learn how to not only give support but to also lower their barriers enough to receive it. It was entirely possible that this tentative, fragile thing that was growing between them would not be able to cope under the strain of it all and shatter, but Stiles knew if they didn't take this chance, if they didn't try, then that would be the greater tragedy.

Both of them were adult enough to admit that them saying ‘I love you’ to each other didn't fix things. It didn't just suddenly magically make either of them stop wanting to die, but they both had a clear reason to hold back now, whereas before everything had been a murky uncertainty at best.

Truly knowing Derek's feelings and finally welcoming his support open Stiles’ eyes to how badly he’d unintentionally hurt everyone.

He could finally see how his depression had twisted his reality so much, and now he knew _for sure_ that everyone wouldn’t be happier with him gone he promised himself that he’d never do that to them again. No matter how badly he might want to die in the future, he’d never again try to take that final step for them.

There was still so much for Stiles to work through: his depression, his panic disorder, physically recovering from his injuries, putting on weight, his PTSD about Malia - such as the nightmares, the flashbacks, the fact that he kept on thinking that he was seeing her everywhere, his near complete inability to cope with women touching him, and so much more.

If Stiles still felt that he were alone he would crumple at the first hurdle, but he didn't feel that way anymore.

It was a good start.

xXx

With all of the therapy and repairing bridges Stiles was doing, he completely forgot that he still hadn’t given his statement on what had happened the night Malia had attacked him until two deputies who Stiles had known since he was in diapers had turned up, both looking apologetic but determined.

Derek had already been in the room and had snarled when they had suggested he leave. The deputies’ hands had remained hovering by their belts every time Derek twitched after that.

Understanding why the statement needed to be done, but also unsure if either he or Derek would be able to make it through with only each other for support, Stiles had been quick to ask for Dr Khatri to join them.

She had unsurprisingly been the calming balm everyone had needed, but even with her there it had still been very difficult for Stiles.

It was only when he was almost half way through that he remembered that the ‘official’ version of events they were going with was that Malia had attacked him and then set a feral dog on him to explain away the bites and howling the neighbours had heard.

He’d managed to recover from it by explaining that his memory of the night was understandably more than a little hazy, and the officers had eaten it up with sympathetic nods.

They were as gentle and as quick as they could be and had left with heartfelt wishes from the entire department for him to feel better soon, as well as a few jokes about how much they’d missed Stiles’ cooking at the bi-monthly department parties. Stiles had shakily promised to be back on form for the next one and then had almost had a panic attack as soon as they were gone.

Derek had praised him for getting through it all so well, covering his almost healed face with kisses while Dr Khatri had given them a moment.

When Stiles was calmed enough she had told him that he had significantly improved in the short time she’d been working with him for him to get through all of that without a flashback or panic attack.

Stiles had absorbed their words like a sponge in water and had been shaky but feeling lighter somehow for the rest of the day.

xXx

A couple of days later Stiles was finally discharged from the hospital, which caused much celebration both with his pack and the hospital staff, who had all been a little overwhelmed by the insanely overprotective stream of people who were constantly visiting the Sheriff's son, even out of visiting hours.

One of the first things that struck Stiles as soon as he’d been wheeled back into his home in a hopefully very temporary wheelchair was that there was no way he was going to be able to go into the kitchen, the dining room, or his own bedroom in the near future.

He immediately made it clear that for the time being he would be staying in the guest bedroom and thankfully no one even thought to protest.

As Derek had been getting him settle into the guest room, John had slipped into Stiles’ old room to grab a few necessities for his son and had walked in gripping Stiles’ laptop and a few changes of clothes.

Stiles was then treated to his second realisation of the day, in that while he was more than happy to see his laptop he would not be able to wear any clothes that Malia had touched, which basically meant all of them.

Once again neither Derek nor his dad had put up any fuss when he had haltingly told them so. Derek had simply said that he bring him some of his own clothes and John had momentarily ducked out of the room then reappeared with several pairs of sweats and old police academy T-shirts.

Stiles was a little embarrassed to say that he was reduced to tears.

His third, and frankly the worst, realisation had come that evening, after Stiles had nodded off after a simple but tasty soup. Almost immediately he was inundated with nightmares and quickly began to drown under the weight of them before Derek shook him awake, fear leaving his face drawn and pale as he shakily explained Stiles had stopped breathing again.

It hadn’t taken Stiles long to work out (after a quick phone call to Dr Khatri, who was surprisingly nonchalant about being disturbed so late and promised to visit him tomorrow morning,) that the hospital had lulled him into a false sense of security. Being back in the house where the majority of his abuse had taken place had been a bleak reminder in just how far he had to go before he felt the slightest bit free of her.

He had drawn into himself after that, going back to refusing to speak, but he'd almost become hysterical as soon as Derek had tried to leave the room.

In the end Derek had had to let John take his keys and go out his car to get his bag, but he hadn't seemed the slightest bit upset or angry with Stiles while he patiently waited.

After John had returned with his bag and had said good night to Stiles, Derek had stripped down to his boxers and then dug through the bag before pulling out a worn and very soft looking pair of pyjama bottoms along with a threadbare T-shirt.

He quickly put them on, didn't bother trying to turn off the small bedside lamp, and then crawled into the bed next to Stiles.

While he couldn't bring himself to talk at that moment, Stiles didn't think that even if he could he would be able to express just how grateful he was to have Derek in his life in that moment.

Derek didn’t say a word as Stiles carefully turned and snuggled himself into his side, even though it meant he would have to put up with an uncomfortable cast slung across his chest for the rest of the night.

Stiles wasn't bothered by any more nightmares and felt up to talking again the next day.

xXx

After that Derek didn't even bother to try to go home in the evenings, and neither Stiles nor his dad tried to suggest he go.

Within a few days most of Derek's possessions that he’d had in his bedroom at the loft had made their way into the Stilinski’s guest room. Bits and pieces from Stiles’ room had made their way in as well and it was almost surreal how quickly they as well as everyone else started referring to it as ‘their’ room.

Stiles, still being wheelchair bound, had not been able to go to buy any more clothes. While he'd bookmarked a few things online he hadn't been able to bring himself to order any so he was currently dividing himself between wearing his dad's clothes and Derek's.

His dad and Derek didn't seem to mind, if anything it seemed to develop into a little bit of competition between the two of them to see who could get Stiles to wear their clothes the most, which usually consisted of leaving them within grabbing distance of Stiles when he first woke up. Currently Derek was winning, much to his satisfaction.

xXx

Before the end of Stiles' first week back home, John, who had been taking the time off to ensure that he could look after Stiles along with Derek received a call from the Sheriff's Department from Parrish. Malia’s adopted father had turned up their asking to speak with him.

Since Malia was still missing, meaning that Stiles needed to be guarded round-the-clock, it wasn't something that could be overlooked and John reluctantly headed in.

Twenty minutes later he called Stiles’ cell, and thirty minutes after that Malia’s adoptive father was settling himself onto the couch in the Stilinski home.

If Stiles was apprehensive, his dad was grim, and Derek paced like a caged wolf around the edges of the living room, constantly checking every doorway and window with a burning intensity.

Mr Tate, no longer the fanatically driven wreck of a man they’d first met, but instead a grieving father and husband, began by apologising to Stiles for not coming to see him sooner. He explained that he had not known what his adopted daughter had been doing until he was called into the station for questioning after she had gone missing, and he had been advised to avoid seeing Stiles until he was more settled in case the sight of his abusers father made things much worse.

Mr Tate had been the furthest thing from Stiles mind while he was in the hospital and so it was little to no trouble for him to accept the man's apology.

Emboldened by Stiles’ acceptance, Mr Tate went on to describe how much his life had changed after Malia had been found:

At first he had thought that all of his prayers had been answered, but his sense of relief had been stripped away in a matter of hours as it became more and more apparent how damaged Malia was and how little he could help her.

He talked of how she’d been unable to comprehend even basic things and that whenever he’d tried to teach her she would quickly become so violent that he’d feared for his life several times.

The final straw came when she had exploded into yet another fit of anger, repeatedly put her fists through the wall as though it were paper, and then he had seen her features shift into something _inhuman_.

He’d thought that he was finally going mad, and he hadn't felt that he was fit to look after any child let alone one with as many problems as Malia. Then he admitted that even if he hadn't been going mad, the experience had made him accept that Malia needed serious, full-time support that he couldn’t give, which was why he’d ended up sending her to Eichen House.

Ignoring the coffee that John had set in front of him, Mr Tate continued on, going over how Malia had very slowly started to learn a few of the more basic human concepts but that the doctors there had explained that even if she would ever be mentally fit enough to leave, it would be a process that would take years to get her up to a basic functioning level, and that she’d probably never be able to develop much past that.

It had been a bitter pill to swallow, so imagine Mr Tate’s surprise when a couple of months later she herself had called him seeming significantly better and excitedly going on about meeting someone who would be able to help her more than all of the doctors. He had been so excited, so happy at hearing her talking like a normal teenager that he had immediately agreed for her release, ignoring the wary advice of the doctors and his own common sense.

While she had initially moved back into her bedroom it had become apparent almost straight away that she wasn't staying in there. He'd tried to ignore what that was telling him and focused all of his efforts into getting Malia into the local high school so she could become even more like a ‘normal’ teenager. She'd been very insistent about attending there; saying that the person who was helping her was also going there.

Pretty soon she was gone more often than not and it became apparent to Mr Tate that while she had improved enough to pass as a normal teenager at a glance, all someone would have to do was talk to her for more than a few minutes to realise how wrong that impression was.

The last time she’d turned up he’d confronted her about it, saying that he’d been getting worrying reports from the school about her failing grades and aggressive attitude and that he thought it was best that she returned to Eichen House.

Her response had been to lift him with one hand over her head, her eyes glowing a terrifying blue and the rest of her face shifting into something much more animalistic, and literally roaring at him through her fangs that no one would tear her away from her mate. After that she thrown him into the wall so hard that he'd been knocked out and when he'd woken up she had gone.

He hadn’t gone to the police because who would believe him? And even if they had what hope did normal humans have against containing something like her? Then after a while he had convinced himself that it must have all just been a product of his own insanity and that his daughter was safer and happier without him around.

A few months later Mr Tate was called into the station about the attack and had to face up to his own devastating guilt over the fact that he could have stopped it all from happening and did nothing because he’d refused to accept that his daughter was a monster.

A couple of days after hearing about the attack and finally crawling out of his drunken stupor he'd found a thick envelope waiting for him on his doormat. Inside was a very thorough series of forms that if signed would renounce all his parental responsibility towards Malia, giving her biological parents back the right instead.

Along with the forms was a letter stating that Malia’s birth mother would be looking after her from now on, that she knew what Malia was and how to control it, and that Malia would not be returning to California, let alone Beacon Hills, again.

After going over the letter and forms repeatedly for the next few days, Mr Tate had finally signed them with a combined sense of loss and relief and had then sent them off with the pre-addressed envelope that had been sent with them.

“So I would like to apologise yet again from not getting in touch with you sooner,” Mr Tate ended his story. “I just wanted you to know that you'll never have to see her again. She's gone.”

Stiles was left speechless with the revelation, something that Mr Tate didn't seem surprised by as he stood, thanked everyone for their time and excused himself, leaving the frozen tableau in the living room.

Eventually, Stiles managed to open and close his mouth several times before he managed to get out a shaky “she's gone?” which broke the frozen moment and caused the other two to rush to his side.

“I'll have to look into it but I think he was telling the truth,” his dad said in a rushed wave of eagerness, one trembling hand pressing against Stiles’ shoulder before he was up and heading out of the room, already speed dialling Parrish as he went.

Derek knelt on the floor in front of Stiles, gazing up at him with eyes more full of hope than Stiles had ever seen before.

“I can really finally be free of her?” Stiles looked to him from reassurance and Derek gave it wholeheartedly.

“I think so, Stiles. I really think so.”


	15. Lips That Would Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for being so slow putting this up! I'm afraid things have been crazy stressful/busy for me the past couple of weeks and it all exacerbated my illness, leading to me having to spend the last five days in bed, in the dark, with a flannel over my head and a bucket beside me :/ I'm well enough now to be able to look at a computer screen again, but not for too long. Still, I'm determined to at least get this chapter up since we've only got one more to go and then the epilogue after this! I'm sorry but I'll have to hold off on replying to your wonderful and thoughtful comments for a bit longer though. Thanks.

It took a little time and some called in favours, but the Sheriff was able to confirm that Mr Tate had indeed legally given up his parental rights to a woman who had supplied unquestionable evidence that she was Malia’s biological mother. However, John had been unable to find out who this woman was or where she lived, and everything was so wrapped up in red tape that it looked unlikely that John would ever get the clearance to find out who Malia’s mother was.

Stiles didn't mind however, as long as Malia remained _away_.

In a sense of cathartic celebration once the news had come through, Stiles and Derek, with the help of Scott and Lydia, had gone through the house starting with Stiles’ room and removed everything that reminded Stiles of either the Nogitsune or Malia. (Rather, Stiles would point at something and someone else would move it.) It meant that not only did Stiles end up getting rid of all of his clothes, but all of her clothes too, plus bed sheets, shampoo, towels, ‘her’ mug, and all of her books and school work.

A good portion of it was donated to charity, which made Stiles feel as though things that had caused him stress and pain were going towards something decent and would hopefully make someone else happy.

The down side to essentially digging through Stiles’ memories though was that there had been several moments in the day when Stiles found himself inexplicably angry. He lashed out at the smallest of things, which in turn would make him even angrier because he knew he shouldn't be.

Derek and Lydia managed it well because they both knew through personal and learned experience that things like that would happen from time to time while Stiles recovered. Scott coped with it well too after Lydia had taken him to one side after the second outburst to explain.

The flare-ups still made Stiles feel helpless though; as if all of the hard work and all of the small successes he’d achieved since his suicide attempt had been for nothing. It was so much worse than the nightmares because at least he could honestly say he didn’t have any control over them, but he did over how he treated people. By lashing out at those closest to him, who were doing nothing more than trying to help, made him feel worthless all over again.

Derek had prompted him to call Dr Khatri, who was now visiting the both of them and John at the Stilinski house three times a week for long individual therapy sessions. Her next session with Stiles wasn’t until Tuesday and it was currently Sunday, so Stiles gave in and called her.

She reassured him that this sort of this was to be expected and perfectly normal, however she promised that she’d teach him a Mindfulness breathing technique that could help him when she saw him next.

Stiles wished she’d tried to teach it to him over the phone when he found himself caught in another emotional-spiral the next day:

His dad had borrowed a book from him some time ago and Stiles wanted to read it again. John had told him that it was in his study and that he’d grab it for him after he’d had his shower since he’d been working in the garden that morning and was coated in sweat and dirt.

While his dad was in the shower, Stiles decided that he was too impatient to wait for him and had slowly wheeled himself into the study (he was really starting to perfect the whole ‘pushing with only one arm’ thing.) He spotted the spine of the book on the bookshelf past his dad’s desk and had rolled himself over before starting the whole back and forth that came with turning a wheelchair. In doing so he bumped his dad’s desk and knocked over what he knew was a photo of himself and his mom, so once he was fully turned he leaned over to right it.

As he did so his eyes caught several words on the papers spread out over the desk: insurance forms and bills for Stiles’ hospital stay. He spotted one figure that had so many zeros in it made his breath catch in the back of his throat and his stomach drop.

Then just like that he was furious again.

How dare Malia put his dad in this situation. How dare his dad keep it from him. How dare he put his dad in this situation. It all came rushing out and he fought not to just sweep the entire contents of the desktop to the floor, because if he went through with that then he’d also go through with setting the whole damn lot on fire.

He was so lost in his anger that he didn’t realise that there was someone standing in the doorway watching him until they spoke.

“Stiles, it’s okay.” It was his dad, hair still damp from the shower and that familiar worried frown creasing his forehead.

“How is this okay, dad?” Stiles snapped back, his ire transferring from the papers to the man standing calmly before him. “How much do you owe? How much does the insurance cover? Did you forget that it’s shit like _this_ that decimates people’s lives in this country? Will we have to sell the house?”

John stepped into the study and closed the door behind him before moving to sit down at the desk. He picked up the top piece of paper, eyes dropping to it to find a half complete insurance form, before he looked up across the desk at Stiles.

“No, Stiles, no. I promise we won’t have to do anything like that. Do you not think that as a Sheriff I wouldn’t have been given the best cover possible? And since you’re still underage you’re covered on it. Stiles, if I fill this all out correctly we shouldn’t have to pay a dime. I really hope so anyway.”

Stiles’ anger vanished, just like that, leaving him feeling unsteady and strangely cold.

“You mean that? But what about everything else then, from before I mean? The MRI, and my stay at Eichen House,” John waved a hand dismissively.

“The only thing I have to pay for is your stay at Eichen and you weren’t there for more than two days so I can manage that.”

“You still shouldn’t have to,” Stiles sighed, shoulders drooping and head hanging.

“Well that’s the way this country works, kiddo, and I’m not saying it’s perfect, far from it actually when you look at medical bodies in other countries, but we’re okay. I promise, Stiles. I wouldn’t keep something like this from you, not now, if I was really worried about it.”

“You really promise, dad?” Stiles couldn’t help asking and his dad sent him a warm smile.

“I promise. We’ve both learned the hard way what keeping big troubling secrets from each other does to us, and I don’t intend to go back to that.”

Stiles couldn’t agree more.

“Isn’t Lydia going to be coming by with your schoolwork soon?” John continued, a sly look finding its way to his face. The debates over the contents of their schoolwork between Stiles, Lydia, and increasingly often Derek as he learned to open up to people other than Stiles, were becoming rather legendary throughout the pack.

With Lydia and Derek’s help, Stiles was getting through the make-up work at such a fast rate that his teachers were already starting to say that there’d be no problem for him to take the end of year exams. It had been a superior moment for the three of them and Isaac had since dubbed them ‘The Brain Tank’.

Stiles knew exactly what his dad was doing but he felt himself sit a little straighter anyway, narrowing his eyes as a part of his mind broke away to start plotting out tactics. Lydia had won last time and Derek the time before. Neither would win tonight.

“Let the battle begin,” he intoned with great solemnity and then had to ask his chuckling dad to wheel him to the living room as his good arm was too tired.

xXx

As the days wore on, both Stiles and Derek had good and bad days. Stiles however was quick to notice that even on the good days, Derek was still terrified of leaving him alone. He seemed to unconsciously believe that if he let Stiles out of his sight for too long without someone he could depend on there with him that Malia or something else bad would appear and kill Stiles/take him away.

Stiles knew that Derek's fear stemmed from his own traumas and so didn't push Derek about it, even though there were times when he felt a little suffocated. (For instance, how he couldn't be in the bathroom more than a few minutes without someone knocking on the door to check on him, or the way the wolves in particular treated him as though he might shatter at any moment so he couldn't even go and get a glass of water on his own.)

Partially due to that, as well as Stiles’ own inability to be alone at night because of the same fear, Stiles discovered that Derek had more than his fair share of nightmares.

It didn’t come as a surprise to Stiles the first time he’d woken up to find Derek whining and shaking while still asleep on the blow up mattress on the floor next to the bed (Stiles had offered to share but Derek had refused for the time being, saying that he might jostle Stiles’ injuries in the night.)

Frankly he would have found it stranger for Derek not to have nightmares; however it wasn't pleasant to view. To see the man that he was coming to love more with every day in such distress shook him to his core in a way that all of the abuse he suffered hadn't.

He'd automatically wriggled himself to the edge of the bed and reached out to shake him awake but then paused, his hand hovering awkwardly in the space between them.

While he knew that he responded best to being woken from his nightmares he didn't know if Derek was the same. Waking him could actually cause him more stress, as some people responded best to just letting things play their course and ending naturally. There was a very high chance as well, given how much of a hair-trigger Derek lived his life on, that he might instinctively lash out on being touched while suffering from the nightmare to protect himself and Stiles knew that Derek would never forgive himself if he hurt him.

He'd agonised over it for several minutes, watching with misery as Derek became more and more distressed. Finally, after the faint light in the bedroom caught the tears that were starting to make their way down Derek's cheeks, Stiles acted. While he didn't reach out touched Derek he started to do something that until recently he'd always been very good at: he talked.

He talked in his typical strange, rambling patterns in which he’d start out soothing Derek then inevitably his train of thought wondering off in a random direction and he'd slide into talking about that, leading him to other things, and then inexorably he would come back to soothing Derek before he was off again. He didn't really talk about anything important; schoolwork, his father's eating habits, the blinding annoyance at having an itch in a place he couldn’t reach, and a few random videos he'd seen online that day. Then he spent some time puzzling over the subtleties of Lydia and Parrish’s relationship, whatever it was, which was continuing to be interesting to watch as Parrish had taken to turning up more and more frequently at the house when Lydia was there going over Stiles’ school work. The conversations between the two, much to Stiles’ increasing frustration he lamented to Derek, remained stilted and on safe subjects before Parrish would slip off to speak to John or whoever he’d made the pretext of coming over to see and then he’d dash out, muttering something about work, and leaving Lydia in a snappish mood for the rest of the evening.

Stiles agreed with himself that Derek couldn’t be oblivious to what was happening either, and by that point his rambling had had an effect on the sleeping Derek as he visibly calmed. By the time Stiles started working over his bullet-pointed strategy to have his dad willingly eating healthily by the time he left the college, Derek was sleeping normally again.

The next morning he’d checked with Derek over whether or not he preferred to be woken if he was having a nightmare. Derek had answered that while in most cases he preferred to be woken he had a tendency to lash out, and so they made the agreement that if it looked bad enough Stiles would only ever try to wake him if he could get Scott or one of the other werewolves to do it. Stiles, having seen Derek's claws rip through steel as though it were butter, was more than happy with the idea of sitting back and letting one of his furry friends take care of that one. In the meantime though Stiles continued his ‘talking Derek out of his nightmares’ strategy since it seemed to be working well and while seeing Derek have a nightmare was distressing, nothing he saw Derek exhibit during those times gave him a serious enough cause of concern to reach for the phone.

Things for the most part though were going well: he was moving along with his schoolwork, he was healing excellently, his therapy sessions were going well, he was steadily re-patching his relationship with Scott, he and his dad when looking like they were going to come out of this closer than ever, and he could wrap his warm and safe relationship with Derek (as well as Derek himself) around him like a security blanket.

Derek and his dad were steadily getting closer as well. There had been wariness on both sides when Derek had first moved in: for Derek it was that he believed he was invading John’s territory and that John didn’t really want him there, as well as he couldn’t see any way John could be pleased with the relationship that was growing between his still-underage son and a older, uncharged-but-still-arrested felon. Stiles wasn’t oblivious to the fact that Derek didn’t feel like he deserved to live in a ‘home’ again either, and how carefully he moved about the house for the first week, as though he was convinced that if he touched anything he’d either dirty it or break it.

For John it was that he didn’t know how to help or reassure Derek that he wanted him there. He worried deeply that he’d fail Stiles again and believed that Derek would do a much better job at ensuring Stiles recovered, but at the same time he feared that it would make him redundant. While that was his main issue, he couldn’t help noticing the same wounds in Derek that were in Stiles. They were older and more scars than wounds, but still there, and John wasn’t sure he had the strength to fix himself, Stiles, _and_ Derek.

Dr Kahtri must have heard enough of these concerns in her one-on-one sessions enough for her to call a group session between the three of them, stating that it would be best to get them out into the open.

With her support Derek and John had tentatively said their pieces, with Stiles light-heartedly playing the devil’s advocate to ensure they didn’t leave anything out. By the end of it John had (hopefully) driven it into Derek’s skull that he was more than welcome in their home and that he should look on it as his own too because he deserved one. John also made it clear in no uncertain terms that he would have to be an even bigger fool than he’d already been to try to get between Derek and Stiles. It was apparently clear as day to see the genuine love between them, plus (John had coughed awkwardly before continuing, the tips of his ears going red,) he honestly didn’t think the two of them would be up to ‘that sort of thing’ for a good while yet.

Stiles had tried to bury himself under the couches cushions in embarrassment while Derek had sat stock still beside him, the only give away to his own mortification the apple in his hand that he was gradually turning to pulp.

Derek, once he had calmed down and managed to dig Stiles out, had made it clear that John would always be an incredibly important person in Stiles’ life and that he could never be ‘redundant’. Sure, Stiles was becoming a young man, and so the balance as parent-child in their relationship would change, but Stiles would never not need his dad to be his dad and there was no one who could replace that.

As for Derek’s own wounds; he very lightly went over his experiences with Kate, confirming what John already knew, but, he made it clear, John wasn’t responsible for ‘fixing’ him. Derek was doing his best, along with everyone else, to heal himself, and while Derek couldn’t promise John that he would be happiness and sunshine all the time he also didn’t want John to feel that just because Derek now lived in his home and was dating his son that he had to take on Derek’s burdens as well.

“The best thing you can do for me,” Derek explained, “is to focus on your own healing. Seeing you getting better will help Stiles in his own recovery, and likewise it will help me in mine. I’m trying my best for myself, for the pack, and most importantly for Stiles. Seeing you continue to do likewise is all I really need.”

John quirked a half smile at him, eyes a little misty.

“Wish I’d known you were this damn smart from the start. Alright, you’ve made a fair point, but I’d like you to know that if you ever feel the need and Doctor Khatri or Stiles aren’t available for whatever reason, that you can come and talk to me, son. Okay?”

Derek had been a little overwhelmed at being called ‘son’ but had agreed.

Stiles had then totally ruined the atmosphere by teasing them about how adult they were being by ‘talking about emotions and shit’, making everyone groan and/or roll their eyes as he sent them all a totally unrepentant smirk.

Everything was going well.

So, because everything was going along so well, Stiles couldn't help but believe that at any moment it was all going to fall apart.

xXx

Stiles was finally getting his casts off.

Over the past few weeks he'd continually had to go back to the hospital to have his wounds checked over, and every time he'd been told that they were healing excellently.

He'd begged and pleaded with Doctor Brillington to get the clunky, annoying casts taken off so he could get out of the damn wheelchair. She in return had laughed every time and told him to wait just a little bit longer. Then the day had come when she'd reviewed his latest x-rays, had turned to him with a gleam in her eyes and had asked whether he wanted the arm or the ankle cast taken off first in his next appointment. Stiles had replied that if she focused on the one on his ankle then he'd bring in his own saw and have a good go at the one his arm. She’d chuckled until he told her that he was serious and then she threatened to have that ‘gorgeous but grumpy’ guy who was always with him to hold down if he attempted anything like that. Stiles had smirked and said that that wasn't much of a threat and they’d descended into sly jibes for the rest of the appointment.

Getting the casts and the splint removed a few days later had been a decidedly underwhelming affair.

It felt like almost as soon as he'd walked into the room he was up on the table trying to ignore the rising concern of _oh my god, what if they go too deep and cut into my skin?_ over the noise. The padding underneath protected him though and the guy who was wielding the saw seemed to know what he was doing. Then it was over.

Unsurprisingly there was quite a bit of dead skin which Scott (who had come along as ‘moral support’ as though Stiles didn’t have his dad, Derek, and Melissa there as well) had surprisingly gagged over it.

“Dude, after everything we’ve seen this is your limit?” Stiles had teased as Scott had gone to hide in the corner. The skin around his ankle and heel did look nasty though, and his elbow and upper arm wasn’t much better. He wanted a shower as soon as he got home.

Even though Stiles was still far too thin there was still a small but noticeable difference between the limbs that had been kept immobile from the cast in comparison to the limbs without – they were thinner and had a more awkward shape that the nurse explained was some slight muscle atrophy.

Stiles was given a set of exercises to do before he met his physiotherapist in a few days’ time and a set of crutches. He would still have to remain in the wheelchair for the rest of his appointment, but then he could try them out under supervision at home later as long as he was very careful not to overstress his arm.

Stiles, delighted over being able to move himself around and not having to be carried up and down the stairs each morning like a damsel in distress by a very smug Derek, wanted to go immediately but the nurse still had a few more things to go over before Stiles could (figuratively) bolt for freedom.

Overall it had been a good day. Stiles was one step further away from what Malia had done to him, every got to laugh at him hobbling around on the crutches while Derek followed him like a worried-but-proud parent watching their child take their first steps, his big hands closing securely around Stiles’ waist or shoulders at the slightest hint of a stumble, and then the whole pack had ordered Chinese and watched crap movies in celebration (Stiles had even let his dad order his favourite crispy fried chilli beef as a one-off.)

Which was why it was so baffling that as soon as Stiles had drifted off to sleep that night, he was dragged down by nightmares more horrific than any he’d experienced since the one with Allison the first time Malia had raped him.

He was back in the ruined kitchen and Malia was standing over him, drenched in his blood.

“Did you have a nice sleep?” she purred, eyes bright with her insanity.

“Sleep?” Stiles tried to say, only to start choking on blood instead.

Malia crouched down, rubbing her crotch over his in a teasing manner.

“Yes, sleep silly. I threw you a bit hard and knocked you out, but you’re awake now and we can get back to the fun.”

Stiles was starting to panic. Everything felt, looked, and smelled real. Had everything that had happened to him since the moment Malia had thrown him back into the kitchen and he’d hit his head all been a dream? Everything with Derek just a fantasy? His dad’s support, Scott coming back to him, the pack rallying around him; had none of it been real?

It was just like with the Nogitsune, when he couldn’t tell reality from the dream, but he couldn’t move his hands to count his fingers.

“You know, when I was out earlier I found something hidden in the woods,” Malia continued on as though she couldn’t hear the way Stiles’ heart was practically pounding out of his chest or the frantic, bubbling gasps he made as his panic sky-rocketed.

She stood and walked from the room and Stiles saw it as his chance. As he tried to get up he was quick to find out though she’d already inflicted the majority of the damage he (falsely?) remembered recovering from, and he couldn’t do anything more than lie there, twitching occasionally as he struggled to breathe.

Malia waltzed back into the room, a mad grin stretching her blood-stained mouth wide and something catching the flickering kitchen light dully in her hand.

“You’ve let me down too badly this time, Stiles,” she announced as she crouched over him again, setting whatever it was she was carrying just above Stiles’ head and out of his field of vision.

“I can’t trust you anymore and frankly it’s rather boring having a mate that’s so easily breakable, so,” she drew the ‘so’ out, making herself sound freakishly childish in juxtaposition to her gore streaked skin and the way she was continuing to grind down on him. “I found the answer. I get to keep you, but I also get to have a mate who will be devoted to me and be able to match me in strength.”

Then she reached forward and a familiar polished wood oval box with a triskele carved into the top was dangled tauntingly in front of his nose. There was a slight buzzing coming from inside.

Stiles screamed.

He screamed through the blood and pain and insanity that he could feel starting to consume great swathes of his mind at the mere thought of being under that _things_ control again. He screamed in the hope that someone would hear him, he screamed in desperation to hopefully make Malia pause and realise the horror of what it was she was doing, he screamed out the wish to die, for the stress of it to fill his remaining lung with blood so he would drown before anything more happened because nothing of him would survive going through this again.

None of what he screamed for materialised though, and then he just started to scream out of fear as Malia reached for the lid and popped it open in an insultingly easy movement.

Instead of just one fly, hundreds, _thousands_ , burst from the container, roaring out into the air in a furious wave of buzzing to roil around the kitchen like a storm cloud before coming into some semblance of order and circling above the two figures on the floor.

“Here he is,” Malia crowed over Stiles’ shrikes. “All broken down and ripe for the taking. Be loyal to me as my mate and we can burn this whole town to the ground for all I care. I will never turn on you, so take him and give me what I want!”

The flies seemed to consider for a moment and Stiles felt a flicker of hope, just for a second, that the Nogitsune was done with him. Then the flies surged forward and Stiles screamed one last time, Derek’s name, before they were forcing his jaw impossibly wide, splitting his lips at the edges as his lower jaw popped grotesquely out of the joints, and tearing down his throat.

For a few horrific seconds Stiles still screamed as he felt them burrow into his lungs, forcing his collapsed one to expand against the air trapped in his chest cavity and shattering his ribs under the pressure, as well as filling his stomach and down into his digestive tract.

Then they were everywhere and Stiles let out what could only be described as a death keel as Malia laughed delightedly over him as everything that was Stiles began to fade away.

The Nogitsune looked up at Malia and smiled with its ruined face, grinding its hips up into her causing her to throw her head back, moaning loudly and grinning madly to the heavens.

“Stiles!”

It wasn’t Stiles anymore though, Stiles had been reduced to a quickly fading speck in the back of the Nogitsune’s consciousness as the Nogitsune, bones cracking back into place, reached out and clamped its hands down on Malia’s breasts, kneading them much to her delight before running one hand down her abdomen and slipping into the top of her jeans.

“Stiles!”

Stiles was nothing. There was no way the Nogitsune would ever be foolish enough to let him out again. Stiles would just be a memory from now on; there was no more Stiles, so why did someone insist on calling his name?

“Stiles! Wake up!”

Wake up? But he wasn’t asleep; rather he had finally woken up again. Hadn't he? But what if he hadn’t? What if those wonderful but fading images of Derek, and his pack, weren’t that of an intangible dream? What if despite Stiles’ deeply pessimistic attitude this nightmare was just that, a nightmare.

“Stiles!” the voice called again, and definitely wasn't coming from either Malia or the Nogitsune. In fact it really sounded like Derek.

Stiles gasped awake, feeling as though he had been dragged up from the depths of more than just his mind.

He couldn’t comprehend where he was for a moment, just that he wasn’t _there_ anymore with _them_.

Something was constricting him and he lashed out, feeling the ache throughout his body as barely healed muscles and bones protested.

Wherever he was it was dark and for a long, horrible moment Stiles couldn’t tell which way was up as he struggled further. He managed to wrestle his way out of whatever was constricting him, but in doing so he must have reached the edge of something because his stomach lurched along with his head in sudden freefall before he hit a floor. Maybe not a floor. It didn’t hurt when he hit it even though it was very firm, and warm, and… breathing?

Everything was still swirling in Stiles’ head. He knew who he was, he knew who Malia and the Nogitsune were, but everything else, including where he was, was fuzzy.

Things started to come back to him slowly when he gave up struggling and just blinked hard as he looked around him, trying to make sense of the world.

He still couldn’t see much but what he could make out made him think ‘guest room’, and then he recognised the layout of the room and the furniture. It was _his_ guest room. The guest room in his house that he lived in with his dad. But why was he in the guest room and not his own bedroom?

It hit him all at once that whoever had caught him was still holding him in his odd pose of having fallen half off the bed. He’s somehow managed to twist himself when he fell so his back was pressing against what had to be the person’s chest and it must be very strange for them to just stand there, holding this gangly teenager who was hanging half out of a bed while they just stared around the room like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

He didn’t think it was his dad. His dad: about the same height as him, a little broader in everything but the shoulders, face tanned and weathered to make him look a little older than his age. Blue eyes - stern, loving, steadfast, sad. Why sad?

As he slowly (since his head _still_ felt like it was going to take off if he moved it too fast, and why was he still breathing like he’d just run a four hundred meter sprint?) tilted his head up and around the other person slid into his field of vision, and he found with every new inch revealed the more he remembered.

There were the hands grasping him as securely yet as gently as usual and oh god, he was getting a hand fetish. He couldn’t see much of the arms but then a shoulder came into view, reminding him of all of the times he’d leaned against them, or had them lean against him as they had both protected and supported each other time and time again. Finally the face swung into view, and even in the barely there light of the room he still knew it as intimately as his own; the thick, unruly hair that he loved to run his fingers through, fierce brows and impressive eyebrows that had created a language all of their own – a language which Stiles was becoming a pro at if he did say so himself. Right in that moment they were tilted vulnerably, creasing the forehead a little. The eyes underneath were, to Stiles, the most beautiful eyes in the world. Nothing could top them and their multi-faceted colour. Then there was the sharp, dignified nose, and who could forget the adorable ears? Or the cheekbones that looked like they were carved from marble. The strong jaw, and the lips, oh those lips; hiding those wonderful rabbit teeth, never smiling enough, but still perfectly shaped whether pouting or snarling. At the moment though they were twisted into an expression of abject misery, and Derek, yes, it was Derek, shouldn’t look like that anymore. That was wrong, wrong, wrong.

As though Stiles’ denial at Derek’s misery triggered it all the last of the memories settled into his mind with barely a ripple and it was like everything snapped into focus.

From what Stiles could make out of Derek’s face in the gloom his expression was alarmingly similar to how he’d looked when he was on his knees in front of Boyd’s body.

“Derek,” Stiles tried to go for gentle, soothing, but instead what came out made him sound like an eighty year old chain smoker.

He swallowed, which is always a horrible thing to do when your throat is dry, and then tried again.

“Derek,” okay, it still wasn’t brilliant but it was better that time.

His thought kept on trying to drift back to the nightmare. Each time he felt as though he was teetering on the edge of a cliff and he’d hurriedly implement the breathing technique that Dr Khatri had shown him to pull himself back. So far it was working, but he suspected his remaining in the here and now had more to do with him worrying over the still unresponsive Derek than his breathing pattern.

“Derek, please say something,” because Derek couldn’t be broken, not to this extent, because Stiles was too broken himself to fix him.

“You were gone.”

It took him a second to realise that the voice had come from Derek because it has sounded so young and overwhelmed.

“What?” he tried to ask softly and Derek blinked, only then making Stiles realise that he _hadn’t_ been blinking for all the time Stiles had been looking at him.

“I kept calling you, but it did nothing, and then you were gone like Uncle Peter. Still breathing but gone inside. I could feel it.”

Stiles was speechless. The horror of how hard the nightmare had hit him, for it to have had such a drastic physical effect on him, and how it must have been for Derek to watch another person he loved slip away from him, was beyond imagining.

He didn’t want to remember, but he could recall the feeling of the fear ripping his sanity apart before being pushed out of control of his body and then crushed down until he was bordering on becoming nothing. Then Derek’s voice had got through to him.

“I didn’t though,” he said desperately, clutching at Derek and trying to get him to really look at him. “Derek, I heard you. You made me realise what I was experiencing wasn’t real. You saved me again.”

This time Stiles was positive he saw a flicker cross Derek’s face and the man stirred a little.

“Saved you?”

Stiles struggled to right himself from what he now realised was his bedsheets wound tightly around his legs. Derek held him automatically all though it until Stiles could finally turn, kneeling on the bed since he knew his ankle was aching quite fiercely from his thrashing, so he could remain as level with Derek as possible. It was a little bit of a stretch but Stiles could reach up with both hands to cup Derek’s cheeks, his skin tingling where the beard rubbed against his palms.

“Yes, saved me. As you always have. Shit, if Lydia finds out about this she’s going to start calling me ‘princess’ given all the times you’ve had to swoop in and save my damsel in distress ass.”

Derek finally raised his head enough for the weak light in the room to spill onto his eyes, and he was finally _seeing_ Stiles in front of him.

“I’m right here, big guy. Thank you for bringing me back, my sourwolf,” Stiles whispered and Derek crumpled.

He fell into Stiles and it was all Stiles could do to get them somewhat safely back down to the bed before he collapsed under Derek’s impressive weight. As soon as they were lying down, Derek curled into and on top of him, all the while letting out dry little sobs, scenting Stiles with every breath, and shielding him from everything but himself.

Stiles went along with Derek’s franticness to reaffirm his reality, more than a little shaken himself over what had happened. But typical of Stiles, he responded best in traumas when there was someone else to take care of and he put all of his own thoughts and feeling over the matter to one side for now to go over at a later date, preferably when Dr Khatri was there, and focused everything on ensuring that Derek was okay.

It took a long time to calm Derek and by the time the last of the frantic fear left him the sky outside the window was starting to lighten, brightening the room one slow shade of blue at a time.

The two of them lay so tangled it was all but impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

“I really do love you,” Stiles sighed into Derek’s chest from where he’d ended up sprawled across the larger man, and he felt that now-familiar kiss grace the top of his head.

“I love you too,” Derek said softly.

“We’re both so fucked up,” Stiles sniggered morbidly before becoming serious once again. “There will probably be more moments like this for us down the road, and the Nemeton will continue to call things, but you know,” he shifted, propping himself up carefully on his good elbow and looking down at Derek’s now calm face. Derek who would always be there for him, patiently listening to all of his troubles, ready to pull him out of his head if it got too bad, and there to brighten everything up with a delightfully sarcastic joke. Derek who somehow seemed to love him just as much as he loved Derek. What had he done to deserve such a man?

“You know,” Stiles continued sounding slightly choked as the immensity of having Derek’s adoration hit him. “I think in many ways that’s why we’ll be okay. We understand the worst of each other and still love each other not just despite of them, but because we both know that without that side of each other we wouldn’t be the person we fell in love with.”

He reached out with his weaker hand and ran it through Derek’s dishevelled hair and then down one side of his face; tracing over his skin as though he was a priceless work of art. Derek turned his head slightly, slightly rough lips kissing Stiles’ palm, and for the first time Stiles’ body was strong enough to send a weak but pleasant wave of heat through him because of it.

“Stiles,” Derek began, speaking in such a soft but earnest voice that Stiles forgot all about celebrating his body starting to react like a normal teenager again. (He and Dr Khatri had actually started discussing the possibility that he could end up impotent.)

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to describe how much you’ve come to mean to me, or how many times you’ve saved me from myself. You’ve given me a sense of peace I never thought I’d have again. I feel so safe with you; knowing that I can trust you with everything, can lean on you when I’m vulnerable, can even just bitch to you about little things that annoy me.”

Stiles snorted at that and one corner of Derek’s lips quirked up.

“I mean all of it; I can’t explain what you’ve given me in knowing that I can trust you. I really didn’t think I’d ever get any of the things I never treasured enough until I lost them back, like being happy to get home after a long day, or knowing I can call someone for no reason other than just wanting to talk to them. I love the idea of picking up something in the supermarket just because I know you’re crazy about it, or randomly bumping into friends who are genuinely pleased to see me – I forgot how good that felt. You and by extension the pack have given me back those things,” he reached out and cupped Stiles’ face, his thumb rubbing gently back and forth over Stiles’ cheekbone.

“Some days I wake up expecting it all to have been a dream,” he went on and Stiles must have looked surprised because he nodded. “You thought you were the only one scared of that? Half the time I’m convinced I must be dreaming when I see you looking at me as though I’m the most precious thing in the world.”

“Believe me, I'm in the same boat,” Stiles interrupted.

“I think it will take the both of us a little longer to get used to the way we feel about each other, but I don't want you to have any worry or doubt over how I feel about you. Admittedly, we've come into this in a strange way and are progressing at a pace that some might think signifies that we aren't actually in a romantic relationship, but I know it’s something we both need which is why I haven't talked to you about it before.”

He shifted slightly, expression going a little hollow again and Stiles went back to running a reassuring hand through his hair which appeared to give Derek the courage he needed to continue.

“I think now that we should have,” he locked his eyes fiercely on Stiles. “Stiles, from what I heard you saying in your sleep while I was trying to wake you it seemed as though you were utterly convinced that you are back with Malia on the night she attacked you, only I didn't turn up to intervene nor did anyone else. Am I right?”

Stiles nodded shakily, trying to keep his focus on Derek's face lest he fall back into the memories again. Derek clutched him a little closer.

“Okay, I'm not going to push you to talk about it, but Stiles and large part of you, even if it might be your subconscious, is still convinced that you're alone to such a degree that you almost drove yourself into a coma. I can't really describe how it is that I knew that was what was happening to you since that's something rare even amongst werewolves, but I could feel you going. It was sort of like the base part of your scent, the bit that can't be influenced by chemicals or overwhelmed by other smells and is just always utterly you, was fading. It's more complicated than that but that's the only way I can think of to describe it. And I just felt so helpless because I couldn't stop it from happening. Even when you're supposed to be safe here with me, with no external threats here to attack you, I still couldn't protect you; just like I couldn't protect anyone else that I've lost.”

Stiles wished ferociously that he could just say something that would make everything better, but he couldn't, knew his words would appear a denial of the problem at best and patronising at worst, so he had to settle for cursing his own subconscious. It was almost ironic that after everything they'd been through the thing that almost took Stiles out of reach was his own mind.

In the end all Stiles could do was to wrap himself more firmly around Derek, hoping that his physical weight would be a reassurance to him.

“But then you did wake up,” Derek croaked out, relief thick in his voice. “You woke up and we calmed each other down and then it occurred to me that maybe part of why you had that dream was because we've never really defined what our relationship is since we started it. Do you think we should?”

Stiles thought it over for a while, wondering what it might have been like for them to have fallen into their relationship a little more normally: sexual tension, flirting, eventually moving on to some sort of confession and then dates, introducing each other to people as ‘my boyfriend’, Stiles finally dragging Derek to a family dinner with his dad and his dad probably having the time of his life playing up to the typical ‘I have a gun’ overprotective parent routine.

Apart from the scene with his dad he couldn't picture it.

“Derek, our relationship is what it is; not something that can be so easily defined by conventional standards. Just because it's not something that a label can just be stuck on so everyone can agree that it's this one thing doesn't make it any less precious. I know where I stand with you; I love you and the more that I find out about you the more there is for me to love. And yes I do admit that there are times when I can scarcely believe that you love me too doesn't mean I don't think that this relationship between us isn't real. You know that I'm a pessimist and that I'm paranoid to boot, but it's also going to take a long time to undo all of the hooks Malia has left in me,” he paused for a moment, noting that Derek wasn't looking much happier and tried to think of something that might give their relationship a little bit more of a defined shape. Then it struck him.

“If you think about it it's kind of like doing everything backwards.”

Derek perked up at that, the expression shifting on his face from guarded the quizzical.

“How so?” he asked.

“Well sure, we haven't done anything like kissed or had sex yet, but we've kind of slid into this ‘old married couple’ type of comfort without even thinking about it. I didn't have to ask you to stay, no one blinked an eye at you moving in here, you help me manage my dad health, we jointly come up with ways to help or manage our friends, everyone always assumes that we know where each other are and they've all started to refer to us jointly in conversations; ‘Stiles and Derek’, not just ‘Stiles’ or ‘Derek’ anymore. There's so many other things as well and let's face it, none of these things have _actually_ slipped by us, they just haven't bothered us so we've been content to let them be.”

Derek was looking at him with wide-eyed realisation, and it was such a comical look on the usually serious man but Stiles couldn't help chuckling at it.

“Oh, you should see your _face_!” Stiles teased before becoming serious once again. “Look, I really don't think we have needs defining. Honestly with the way I see it we've both been through too much to blindly jump into a relationship again, this isn't some sort of hormone driven fling, nor is it some sort of unrealistically sappy teenage romance. We’re just two broken people who gradually came to realise that we're better when we're with each other. While I suggest we be careful of any co-dependency growing, I think we can go entirely at our own pace, fuck what anyone else might say, and if that means that we don't even have our first kiss for a year then if it's something that you're not 100% comfortable with doing before that moment then I’m more than fine with it,” Stiles sighed, a little frustrated due to feeling like he wasn’t explaining himself very well.

“I don't know about you, Derek,” he tried again. “But with the way things are going and how I feel about you, I can see myself spending the rest of my life with you. You're it for me, or at least I'd like you to be. Does that make it any clearer?”

Stiles started to fidget, wanting to rub his hands through his hair the way he always did when he felt nervous. He'd just figuratively laid his heart on the line so he felt entitled to some nerves, however his bad hand was tucked under the pillow supporting his head and his good hand was still lost in Derek's hair; Derek who was suddenly a lot closer.

“Yes,” Derek said softly, eyes almost shining with wonder. “Yes, you've made it so much clearer. In response I have a question for you.”

Stiles frowned, not making sense of the direction Derek was taking the conversation.

“Shoot,” he said.

Derek was so close now Stiles could count the individual lashes framing his eyes in the early morning light.

“How about we have that first kiss right now?”


	16. Trembling with Tenderness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the well-wishes, I'm doing much better, and we're on the last chapter! Only the (mega-long) epilogue to go now, which might be a few days. Wheeeeeeeee!!!

Stiles stared, positive he couldn't have heard Derek right.

“Huh?” was all he could come up with.

Derek smirked.

“Our first kiss. Right now. How about it?” he said slowly, teasingly.

Stiles managed to pull his good hand free of Derek's hair to slap him playfully on the shoulder, causing Derek to chuckle. “I heard you, idiot! But I meant right here, right now? Are you sure?” he gestured to himself, dressed in a ratty old T-shirt of Derek's and a pair of boxers that were starting to fray at the edges, then to Derek who was dressed similarly, then around at the room which was a mess of scattered items that had been dragged in from Stiles’ bedroom and items of Derek's than had appeared a few pieces at a time from the loft.

“Morning breath and all that,” Stiles continued nervously.

Before Stiles could launch into a random fountain of babble that he could feel building, Derek's hand was settling soothingly over his pounding heart. Stiles looked back up into eyes was so warm and gentle with love that he could feel himself automatically relaxing at the sight of them.

“It's perfect,” Derek murmured. “You’re perfect. I'm more than ready for this, Stiles, just as long as you are.”

He was so close now Stiles could feel his warm puffs of breath on his lips.

“Oh, I am so ready, dude,” Stiles whispered, eyes starting to automatically close.

“Don't call me dude,” Derek breathed and then their lips finally touched.

It started off just how Stiles imagined it would: absolutely nothing like his kisses with Malia. Instead they gently brushed against each other, almost tentative, ready to back off at the first sign of discomfort. But then as they both became comfortable with it they sank deeper, tongues subtly starting to come into play.

Then Derek did something, rolled his tongue and tilted Stiles’ head in a way that had Stiles letting out a faint moan as the thrill ran through him. Derek seemed to draw as much if not more excitement from the noise and doubled his efforts, carefully rolling onto his back and bringing Stiles with him, mindful even in that moment of how fragile Stiles' body still was.

Stiles settled down on top of Derek's body as though every inch it had been made perfectly for him, both his hands now free to glide over Derek as they pleased. Derek's hands did likewise, rubbing up Stiles’ thighs, around his waist, up his back and down his arm before repeating, each time seeming to get a little bolder; lingering longer on the skin of Stiles’ thighs, pushing up the legs of his boxers a little further, and edging up the bottom of Stiles’ T-shirt to reveal more skin.

Stiles was lost in the experience; nothing had ever felt so good. His lips and tongue clashed almost frantically with Derek's now between gasping breath against each other's mouth. The smell, sight, taste, sound of Derek was almost too much, sending Stiles to dizzying heights of pleasure. He wasn't sure who started to move their hips first but suddenly they were both grinding against each other.

It was only when Derek started to let out animalistic little whines as he rubbed his hard, hot, and holy god freaking _huge_ erection up against Stiles’ hip that Stiles realised even though he was immensely enjoying what was going on that he himself wasn't hard, and he knew they were on the verge of getting too carried away and withdrew.

“No, no,” Derek panted reaching for Stiles but not trying to pull him back as they both knew he could so easily. “Come back here, please. You're so beautiful, so perfect, my Stiles.”

Stiles wanted to, he really did, but he also knew that if he took this much further while his body and mind weren’t truly up to it he'd likely find himself suddenly overwhelmed, maybe pulled into a flashback, and then he’d be scared to try again for a long while and Derek would blame himself.

He never wanted to regret doing anything like this with Derek, so if for the time being it was best to pull back, then he would pull back.

“I think we were getting a bit carried away, let's stop there for now,” Stiles tried to ease what he was saying by leaning down on giving Derek a soft, closed-mouthed kiss. If anything it seemed to help Derek regain control of his sentience; the hazy look in his eyes cleared, and his panting slowed and after a couple of deliberately deep breaths, settled back into a normal breathing pattern. He then raised his hand and carefully pulled Stiles’ t-shirt back down, smoothing over the material before settling his hands at Stiles’ waist, thumbs automatically starting to move in calming circles.

“Okay, I'm good. Sorry, I got a little carried away. Are you okay?”

Stiles shifted his position so he was laying back on the bed beside Derek, thinking that if their positions are reversed he would be more than a little distracted with Derek still pressed up against him so intimately on such a sensitive place. Derek did look a little relieved.

“Are you kidding? I'm great! More than great, I'm brilliant. I knew we'd be so hot together.”

Derek chuckled and pressed a quick kiss against Stiles’ lips, and Stiles revelled in how comfortable the movement already felt.

“Well I’m glad, because I’d like to do that a lot more in the future,” Derek all but purred and Stiles felt that lovely little tingle again.

“Count on it,” he grinned and Derek’s expression was so relaxed and free he actually looked his real age for once.

They settled back against each other, letting themselves fully calm down and just basking in each other’s presence as the rising sun brought the colour back into the room.

Stiles was struck by a thought that had been at the back of his mind for some time and he decided that right then might be the best time to bring it up.

“Derek?”

“Hmm?” Derek hummed from where his face was buried contentedly in Stiles’ neck.

“Could you take me somewhere today?”

That got Derek’s attention. He pulled himself up quickly, then seemed to catch himself and instead lowered himself back down to the mattress and rolled over to face Stiles.

“You haven’t been anywhere except the hospital since you got released. Are you sure you’re feeling up to it now?”

Stiles nodded determinedly.

“Yes. If I don’t do it now then this house will become too much of an escape for me and I’ll never be able to leave it.”

“Okay, where do you want me to take you?”

The fact that Derek didn’t pester Stiles about whether he really was ready, try to talk him out of it, or even make it into a joke for Stiles having taken this long to get to this moment (not that Derek would have done those things anyway, but it was good to be proven right) made Stiles screw up his courage and say the words that had been burning a hole in the back of his mind.

“I want to visit Allison’s grave. I need to go and see my mom anyway, so I thought today we could do both.”

It was clear from Derek’s face that whatever he’d been expecting hadn’t been that, but he rallied admirably and didn’t hesitate to agree.

xXx

Barely an hour later Derek was holding the front door open for Stiles as they slipped out into an unusually frosty morning for late spring.

Stiles had left a note for his dad but had made sure to tuck his phone into his pocket as he was sure he’d be receiving a call from him later anyway.

Derek watched closely as Stiles balanced himself on his crutches down the few porch steps, but Stiles was relieved that he let him do it by himself, and so in return offered no protest as Derek steered him past the jeep and straight to the Toyota parked on the street. Honestly he was a little thankful as Derek’s car had heating, which Derek promptly cranked on as soon as he’d turned the key.

They drove in silence, relishing the quiet of the early morning and empty roads as the sun gave everything a crisp, gold edge. At most they must have passed only a couple more cars, a few joggers, and one determined mailwoman before they pulled into the twenty-four hour gas station and Derek jumped out, jogging swiftly over to the shop and disappearing inside. A few seconds later he appeared in the window waving a bunch of daisies in one hand and a bunch of carnations in the other. Stiles gave the carnations the thumbs up because he knew his mom hated daisies. Then Derek appeared with a bunch of white roses and red. Stiles picked the white.

A minute or so later Derek was walking out of the shop and Stiles was tempted to ask what had taken him so long before a paper bag was dropped into his lap.

“Eat,” Derek ordered and Stiles opened the bag to find two blueberry muffins inside. He broke off a tiny piece of one and was surprised to find it still warm and delicious.

“The local baker who supplies them just dropped it off,” Derek said, interpreting the pleasantly surprised look on Stiles’ face as he started the car. “Apparently they’re all gone by mid-morning and then the staff have to put out the generic brand they get shipped in.”

“Shipped?” Stiles teased with a large chunk of muffin halfway to his mouth. Derek retaliated by leaning over and wrapping his lips around the piece, neatly removing it from Stiles’ fingers. He leaned back and gave a wolfish grin.

“You know what I mean,” and then he put the car into gear and peeled out of the gas station.

It took them a while longer to get to the graveyard and the closer they got the more Stiles’ appetite dwindled until he was just picking at him muffin, turning it into a mess of crumbs at the bottom of the bag.

As they pulled up in front of the cemetery gates Stiles found he couldn’t take his eyes off of them and didn’t even register the bag being removed from his hands until Derek was taking them in his own and squeezing gently.

“We can do this as slowly as you need to,” he reassured and Stiles was infinitely grateful that he didn’t say that they could go back if he wanted because in that moment Stiles would have said yes.

Instead, Stiles gritted his teeth, unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the car door.

Derek was around to his side with the plastic bag containing the flowers hanging from his wrist before Stiles had even managed to get the first crutch out of the car. He hung back though, only helping if Stiles asked for it.

Together they made their way over to the gates and Derek undid the heavy iron latch before pushing them open with a faint creaking sound.

“I wonder if all the gate-makers who make gates for graveyards have this sort of secret code that they follow to make the gates as creepy as possible, because it sure as hell seems like there’s some sort of conspiracy going on here,” Stiles mused, interested despite the fact that he’d started speaking just to try to calm his nerves.

“Been to a lot of graveyards have you?” Derek asked casually as he closed the gate behind them and the slowly started down the paved path.

“A fair few,” Stiles raised his nose in the air for a moment before deciding it was more important to look where he was going.

“Then you must be right,” Derek agreed dryly.

“Oh, you think you’re such a funny man.”

“I’m hilarious; you on the other hand are an idiot.”

“I shall have my revenge for your slight, Hale, mark my words.”

“I look forward to it, Stilinski.”

As they walked and continued to banter (a little falsely to cover the slight tension) back and forth as they inexorably drew closer to Allison’s grave, until they got to the part where Stiles would have to leave the security of the path and start crossing the grass, slowing their progress even further.

Even though Stiles hadn’t seen Allison’s grave in months it was easy to pinpoint with the huge swath of flowers still covering it.

The last few meters before they stopped before her final resting place seemed to take a painfully long amount of time, and then they were there.

Stiles stared at all of the flowers; a few of them were dried husks, but so many were fresh, recently added. He saw cards from people he only vaguely knew and some he didn’t know at all. Several teachers’ names were visible, as well as a few shop names like the sports shop she would frequent to outfit her bow.

He remembered how many people had been at her funeral:

He’d been at the front with the rest of her close friends and father, almost expecting at any moment for Chris to pull a gun and plant a bullet between his eyes. With how he’d been feeling back then he would have done nothing to stop him.

So, he’d stood there in a black suit that didn’t fit properly with his head bowed, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. There had been a lot of sobbing from further back in the crowd, but the immediate group around the grave had remained utterly silent throughout the ceremony.

When the time had come to lower Allison’s coffin and then to individually drop the roses on the top of it where it lay hemmed in by the earth, Stiles had stayed where he was, eyes fixed on something in the distance but not seeing as everyone attending the funeral had filed past him to say their final goodbyes.

Soon there had been only the pack left as everyone had headed off to wherever the wake was being held – Stiles hadn’t bothered to listen – and then one by one they had drifted away without a word.

Derek had been the last one to leave him standing there alone and, strangely for him, had given Stiles a gentle pat on the shoulder as he’d gone past.

Stiles had remained near Allison’s grave long after the grave diggers had finished filling it in, long after evening had set in, right up to when a drunk Chris Argent had turned up and told him to get out of his sight. Only then had Stiles left, with the echoes of the sobbing man ringing in his ears.

Now he stood before her grave again, and instead of bare, freshly turned earth there were so many flowers it overwhelmed him.

“I didn’t realise-” Stiles started before his voice broke and he had to give himself a few moments before trying again. “I never thought about how many people’s lives she touched. I always forgot how popular she was, but how couldn’t she be with her smile and attitude? You couldn’t help but fall in love with her a little.”

Derek remained silent beside him, letting him get it all out.

“It shouldn’t have been her,” Stiles whispered and Derek shifted slightly. “I’m not saying it should have been me,” he reassured and the tension in Derek’s shoulders released. “It shouldn’t have been anyone; we should never have been in a situation like that in the first place. None of us deserved this because now, even when we learn to live with it, there will be times when we can’t help but feel the hole left by her in our lives. We’ve got to continue to grow and change, knowing all the while that she’s going to remain fixed here, forever eighteen. Before we know it we’ll have spent longer without her than we did with her.”

Stiles realised that the flowers in front of his eyes were blurring and reached up a hand to rub ineffectively at his face.

“God, this hurts,” he ground out, voice thick and unsteady, only to feel Derek’s shoulder bump against his in support. He sent him a small, shaky smile. “I think it might be a good hurt. I’ve been blaming myself for this for so long that I never got the chance to properly grieve her, and that’s an insult to her, to me, to everyone really.”

He held his hand out and Derek slipped the white roses into it. They looked pitifully small and cheap, gas station flowers through-and-through, compared to some of the other bouquets on the grave and Stiles felt ashamed. She deserved better.

A thought struck him and he hobbled around to her headstone, pulling the flowers from the plastic as he went. Derek followed, a quizzical expression on his face but still not speaking; giving this moment just to Stiles.

Stiles awkwardly knelt and managed with a little bit of digging to wedge the flowers into the dirt behind Allison’s headstone. Then he pushed himself upright before placing a hand on Allison’s marker and closing his eyes.

He hadn’t tried to use his magic since that night on the hospital roof. Deaton had at first told him to give it a chance to recover and then had given him meditation exercises so he could learn to feel it and understand it better. He still couldn’t quite ‘see’ it clearly yet, but he was nearly there; soft, shimmering strands of blue moved like seaweed in a current deep inside him with streaks of gold and red running throughout, showing him more than anything else how closely he would always be tied to his wolves.

It responded to him joyfully now, as though it had been waiting patiently for him all this while, and poured down his arm, through the stone – lingering over Allison’s name and the feelings of love/guilt/pride/shame Stiles felt for her – before rushing onwards into the earth and around the stems of the roses planted in it.

It was only when Derek gave a slight gasp behind him that Stiles dared to open his eyes.

He smiled.

Wrapping around Allison’s headstone in a way that would support the stone and keep the inscription clear was a stunning white rose bush in full bloom. The roses were huge and caught the sunlight in a way that made them look as though they were a soft gold. It was beautiful, with a soft-yet-graceful type of stunning beauty that matched Allison perfectly. So too did the numerous sharp thorns match her as well, and Stiles didn’t think he’d have to worry about anyone trying to steal them.

As he stepped back the rose bush stretched and grew to fill the space he’d occupied, evening out its shape; then once Stiles was happy he gently tugged on his magic and felt it come back to him.

He felt a little light-headed, but other than that he was proud of his accomplishment and the equivalent exchange should be able to be something simple like a few of the vegetables in the fridge at home.

“It’s beautiful,” Derek finally spoke with reverence after they’d stood admiring it for a few minutes. “She would have loved it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles croaked out, not bothering to stem the tears that were flowing again. “I think she would have.”

Derek reached over and took his hand.

They remained lost in their own thoughts, finding peace in each other’s silence, before Stiles brought his fingers to his lips, pressing a kiss onto them and then brushing them against Allison’s name in farewell.

He awkwardly shuffled around on his crutches and began to head back to the path.

Derek stood for a while longer before dipping his head in a respectful nod at Allison’s headstone, then he turned and jogging over the dew-damp grass to catch up with Stiles.

As the sun rose higher, burning off the last of the chill in the air, and the morning started to lose the golden-edged glow the two of them reached Claudia Stilinski’s grave. While there were not as many as had been at Allison’s there were several bunches of semi-fresh flowers. The grave itself had been well-tended unlike the graves on either side of it.

“Hey, mom,” Stiles said roughly, trying to smile a little. “Sorry I couldn’t come and see you sooner.”

He paused for a bit, not because he was expecting some sort of reply, but because he was trying to work out if he’d say anything further.

Stiles didn’t believe in an afterlife, he never had, and even with all of the supernatural stuff that he’d learnt since he lost her he still hadn’t seen any evidence for one. All the supernatural had offered him was that people could leave ‘echo’s’ of themselves that could inhabit object, or in Peter’s case people like Lydia, so if they were brought back that ‘echo’ grew until it became the real person again. Stiles had checked and his mom hadn’t left an ‘echo’ in anything so he didn’t believe he was actually talking to her when he did this. It was more like he was talking to the memory of her. It could still help him feel a little closer to her though; refreshing the good recollections of her again, while the sharp pain of having her no longer there slid a little more into a manageable ache.

“These past few months have been pretty rough for me. Something happened that led to me doing some terrible things that were out of my control. I mean that literally, as in I was possessed by this freaky spirit called a Nogitsune. Anyway, because of this Nogitsune, Allison died and I blamed myself for her death. Still kinda do. And so because of that I didn’t do anything to stop this were-coyote girl from just planting herself in my life like she owned it.”

He paused again, trying to imagine how his mom would react if she were alive, but he’d lost her so young and her death had been the first true tragedy of his life, so he honestly had no idea. He liked to think she would have just… got what he was trying to say, and not judge him for any of it.

“Oh mom, I was so far gone I didn’t even try to do anything when I realised she was going to end up killing me. Which she kinda maybe did try to do. If it wasn’t for Derek, I wouldn’t be standing here. I think you’d like Derek. Hell, I know you’d love him and would tease him with me to make him smile and make him your famous hot chocolate, which I still can’t get right by the way. He’s good for me and I love him, mom,” he glanced around for Derek and spotted him several feet away, looking almost nervous and clutching the carnations awkwardly.

Stiles waved him closer, leaning heavily on a crutch and almost overbalancing. In a flash, Derek was there with a hand securely under Stiles’ elbow.

Stiles chuckled.

“See, mom? He’s a total angel. Honestly don’t know what I did to deserve such an amazing guy,” he flashed Derek a smile and took the flowers, bending to rest them amongst the others before the headstone. He wouldn’t be doing his magic again, partially because he didn’t feel up to it, but also because he didn’t want to do it with carnations; his mom deserved something a little more special.

“He loves me too, although I can’t figure out why,” he received a slightly sharp nudge in the ribs for that. Stiles smiled. “I’m doing much better now, mom, thanks to him, and dad, and Scott and the rest of the pack. I can’t say that I’m in a good enough place to call myself ‘happy’ yet, but I’m getting there.”

He kissed his fingers and brushed them across the headstones name like he had with Allison’s grave.

“I miss you every day. Love you, mom.”

He turned briskly and started to hobble away as he never liked to linger over her grave, because after a while he’d start thinking about how he was standing over what remained of her body. Morbid, he knew, but he was unable to help himself.

Stiles was so lost in his thoughts that it took him a while to realise that Derek, who had his hand placed in the small of Stiles’ back and was steering him, wasn’t leading him back to the gate, but rather into a much older part of the graveyard. The oldest bit in fact, dating back to when the town was founded in the mid-1800s.

“Why are we going here? Do you like checking out the old graves?”

Stiles himself had always had a bit of a fascination with them, and it was from doing that that he’d discovered that Stilinski’s had lived in Beacon Hills since the late nineteenth century; namely his great-great grandfather and his brother, both of whom had married and had several children. It had then been depressing to find out (again by way of graves, rather than asking his dad like a normal kid might) that all but one of their son’s had been killed in the First World War. The one that had returned had married shortly after and had Stiles’ grandfather, two other brothers and a sister. One of the brothers had been killed in the Second World War, the other brother never married, the sister married into another family and moved all the way across the country, and Stiles’ grandfather temporally moved away to San Francisco, where he met Stiles’ grandmother and there they had married and had John. They’d moved back to Beacon Hills to raise him and sadly both had been killed in a car accident while Stiles’ dad was in the army. John had met Claudia after he had been honourably discharged and Stiles had heard him say several times that she was what got him through those first few years back.

He realised he hadn’t yet told Derek any of this and was about to point out where his great-great grandfather, Theodore Stilinski, was buried, when Derek answered the questions he’d forgotten he’d asked.

“While I do like looking at old grave stones, I thought it would be a good idea to take you to see my family, since we’ve seen your mom.”

Stiles was speechless, staring wide-eyed at Derek as the bigger man continued to gently guide him down paths that became more weed-strewn.

“I know everyone knows that my family is old, and has been here a long time,” Derek continued, eyes on the way ahead of them to search out anything that might cause Stiles to trip. “But what most don’t know is that we helped to found the town. We put up the money and protected the humans from the animals in the Preserve. Due to that we’re in the town history, but because our family always remained at a distance from the townsfolk, preferring instead to build our house in the forest for obvious reasons, before long the humans were as much afraid of us as they respected us. We never harmed any of them when it was just a small colony and so that fear never turned into hatred, but because of that we became just a side-note in the town’s history and we let it be because honestly we preferred that. We didn’t want to advertise to any hunters that we were here. We’d escaped from the Argents and other larger hunting families in Europe and we just wanted some peace. We found it here and lived happily, protecting the town as it grew from the side-lines, then-” his face which had been relaxed, tightened. “Then I had to go and fuck it all up. I didn’t just get my existing relatives killed; I also wiped out everything that my ancestors had worked so hard for.”

“Hey, hey,” Stiles stopped, forcing Derek to come to a halt to.

He turned and Derek did so as well, but he kept his face turned down and away, anger and shame all but humming off every tense muscle. His free hand was gripped tightly around the plastic bag from the gas station, in which Stiles could just make out another bunch of flowers; so he’d been planning on taking Stiles to see his family from the very start and that would have made Stiles feel breathless, and nervous, and relieved, but he had more important things to worry about in that moment.

Instead he hitched his crutches into his side so he could reach up and cup Derek’s face with both hands, slowly turning it towards him. Derek didn’t resist, but he did keep his head turned down, eyes bitter.

“I know it’ll take you a long time to believe it, but listen to me,” Stiles said quietly but decisively. Derek’s eyes reluctantly rose and Stiles leaned forward until his forehead was almost touching Derek’s, whiskey eyes burning fiercely into Derek’s multi-coloured ones.

“This is not. Your. Fault. Kate would have found a way even if she hadn’t targeted you. She was an insane, homicidal psychopath who was obsessed with killing werewolves, whether they were innocent or not. There was no way she was gonna leave your family alone. Believe me, my dad’s told me about some horrifying cases about people like her that he’s helped with and one thing was clear with all of them: psycho’s like her don’t stop once they’ve become fixated on something. _Nothing_ would have held her back from destroying your family short of killing her, even if things with you hadn’t worked, she _would_ have found another way. They always do. Besides, you didn’t know. How could you have? It’s not like we get how-to-spot-a-psychopath lessons at school.”

“But I knew about hunters. I should have realised she was one,” Derek protested, regret heavy in his words. Stiles shook his head.

“You know what the other thing I learned from dad’s cases was?” Derek shrugged. “It was that people with her level of crazy are damn good at hiding it. They usually come across as charming, or vulnerable, to get close to people, and it’s only when everything is lined up how they want it that they drop the mask. Derek,” Stiles rubbed his thumbs over Derek’s sharp cheekbones, “Kate fooled everyone, not just you. Do you know how many people saw her with you around town and never thought to report it even though they knew you were underage and that she was clearly so much older than you before the fire? I read the report; there were dozens, all of them saying that if they had any interaction with her that she was such a cheerful, fun person. A little cheeky, a little sly, but no ill-will meant most of them said, and they continued to believe that right up until it all came out after Peter killed her. Even the Sheriff at the time had met her and didn’t give her a second thought in the investigation. You’re not the only one beating themselves up for not being able to look at her and see the monster inside.”

“But there were so many signs,” Derek tried to protest, but his voice was weakening, the bitterness fading.

“And you don’t think others saw them; besides a sixteen year old kid, still grieving his first love? There are reports with the neighbouring police of her getting into bar fights in the next town over and people from Beacon Hills seeing her there and saying nothing. Harris, even though he was a grown man, didn’t go to the police when she basically told him she was planning to burn a house down. There were so many chances for _adults_ to do something about her in the months she spent breaking you down and abusing you, but none of them did anything. If anyone’s to blame it’s them, not you, never you.”

“I-” Derek gives a token protest and then trails off in the face of Stiles’ determined stare. He then sags a little, bumping his forehead against Stiles’ and bringing his arms up to wrap loosely around him. They both closed their eyes, calming down and losing themselves in each other for a moment.

“I think this is one disagreement that I will never not be happy to lose,” Derek murmured against Stiles’ lips.

“Count on it,” Stiles murmured back and then they were kissing softly.

It remained chaste and didn’t last long, not with where they were, and Derek slowly pulled himself away to bury his head against Stiles’ neck, taking several deep breaths. Stiles continued to hold him until he was ready to draw away.

“You ready to go on?” Stiles asked and Derek nodded. Stiles was unsurprised to learn that the Hale’s were such an old, rich family that they had a grandest mausoleum in the entire graveyard, while managing to make it somehow subtle and respectable. He’d probably seen it half a dozen times over the years and then overlooked it in his explorations for the more in-your-face ornate ones. It was only when Stiles looked closer that he noticed the countless wolves that had intricately been hidden amongst the overall design.

There was no name over the door, just the triskele symbol, and he’d never thought to ask which family it belonged to.

Now though he knew, this was where all of the Hale’s of bygone eras had been entombed. It was the resting place of all the Hale’s who had lost their lives in the fire, and since a year and a half ago it was Laura’s resting place too.

He stood before it feeling rather lost, not knowing what to do when it came to a grave as grand as this.

There was a rustle to his right and he turned his head to see Derek pulling the last bouquet of flowers out of the bag, before crumpling the bag up in his fist and putting it in his pocket. The flowers were some simple, gas-station-value, red roses.

“We ought to come back here and do this properly,” Stiles said, feeling disrespectful. “You know, with like some proper flowers.”

Derek however shook his head.

“It’s fine. My family never really cared for things like that; it was always the thought behind a thing that made it precious, not the thing itself. The walls of our house were covered in the shit drawings Laura, Cora, and I had made when we were little; both Laura and I got to the point where we found them embarrassing and tried to take them down and mom almost bit our heads off. She said that we’d made them for her for mother’s day, and the same for our dad for father’s day, and that they’d been drawn with love for them so they were staying up where they could love them too.”

He smiled wistfully and Stiles felt his throat tighten.

“Okay, I can totally get behind that,” he managed to get out before Derek turned the smile on him and he had to reach out and take Derek’s free hand, squeezing the fingers between his own.

“So, do we need to go in or something to give them the flowers?”

Derek looked up at the mausoleum, sighed, and shook his head.

“I don’t have the key with me, but I’m not sure I’m ready to go in their yet either.”

Stiles squeezed his hand again and this time there was an answering squeeze.

“We’ll do everything at your pace, all I ask is that you let me be here for you whenever you need me,” the smile he got for that was blinding.

Derek stood staring up at the grand tomb for several minutes, Stiles comfortable to stand beside him, holding his hand all day if Derek needed him too. After roughly five minutes though, Derek released Stiles’ hand and stepped forward to place the roses just in front of the gate.

“These are for you all,” he began sounding a little uncertain. “But more importantly I brought Stiles to meet you. He came to the house with his mom, Claudia Stilinski, when he was younger, remember? We’re… we’re together, as in romantically. Shut up, Laura. And it’s serious. He’s helped me through more than he’ll ever realise and he means the world to me. I love him with all my heart, which was why I wanted to bring him here to meet you all. So,” he made a slight flailing gesture with his hands that would be more expected of Stiles. “Er, that’s it. I miss you guys, always will, but Stiles is helping me find a new family; never to replace you, but to give me something I thought I couldn’t have again. I believe I’ll be happy with him.”

When Derek turned, Stiles knew by the startled expression that appeared on his face, and the way his eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline, that he was caught off-guard by the tears pouring down Stiles’ cheek.

“Stiles, what-” he stepped forward anxiously, already reaching for him. Stiles all but fell into him and wrapped his arms around him as tightly as he could, ignoring his crutches as they clattered to the ground.

Derek had just given him the ultimate sign of trust and he was on cloud nine.

“Thank you,” he mumbled into Derek’s shoulder.

“For what?” Derek asked, still worried, and Stiles pulled his head up long enough to give him a beaming smile and a wet kiss.

“For being you, for letting me into your life, for not leaving me,” he somehow managed to cling a little tighter to Derek. “For so many things.”

Derek relaxed and wound him arms properly around Stiles, hugging him back just as fiercely and thankfully.

“Leaving you was out of the question; from the moment I met you, you managed to worm your way into my heart in the most unexpected ways.”

“So you’ll stay with me?”

Derek pulled back and brushed the back of his hand over Stiles’ cheek, wiping away the tears. The sun had risen over the tree line and the glow it gave him, making his eyes shine like the finest jewels, making the red tones of his hair light up, and above all making the warm, loving smile he was giving Stiles perfectly clear, made him look ethereally beautiful.

“Always.”


	17. Epilogue

“C’mon, Stiles, we have to go!” John called up the stairs, making Stiles, who was still in his room, jump.

“I’m just finishing off this email! Has anyone seen my sunglasses?”

“They’re down here on the table!” Stiles heard Scott yelling from what sounded like near the front door.

“Thanks! I’ll be down in a minute!” he shouted back, not taking his eyes off the screen in front of him.

He was just finishing off responding to Cora’s email, who was doing excellently down in Colombia and was demanding he come down and see her again soon.

She had been understandably protective of Derek when she’d first learned of their relationship, but after seeing them together she’d muttered something about them reminding her of her and Derek’s parents, gave Stiles a light tap on the arm and had from that point on treated him as her ‘honorary brother-in-law’ because apparently it was “only a matter of time with how disgusting sappy you are with each other, now leave me alone before I vomit from your cuteness”.

Stiles had already visited her home once with Derek and it was a sight to see Cora happy with the pack that had found and raised her after the fire. She acted her age and smiled all of the time, delighting in playfully tormenting the younger pups and proudly lived up to her name as the ‘big sister’ to them all.

The pack itself had bought a massive swath of isolated land decades ago along the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta mountain range, only a couple of hours drive from the Caribbean. They left most of it wild for them to play and hunt in, but the rest of it they’d turned into a successful farm.

Their nearest neighbours were a tribe of Native American’s; the Arhuaco, who traded with them regularly, knew what the pack was and respected their wish for privacy. The Arhuaco would come to them if they felt they were being threatened and in return the tribe would help out on the farm and keep their secret.

Remembering the stunning views, the crisp, clean air, and the warm and welcoming pack made Stiles hope they could return again for the next dry season and he finished Cora’s email with a smile.

As he exited it he saw that he’d received another email, but on reading the sender he decided to leave it for the meantime. It was from the Desert Wolf, or Martha, as she preferred to be called.

They had started emailing a while after Peter had turned up again in Beacon Hills and he’d told Stiles (with Scott glaring, red-eyed at him from the corner) what had happened to Malia: it was a convoluted story full of humble acts of bravery on Peter’s part and Stiles took it all with not just a pinch, but a boatload of salt. He knew if he wanted the truth he would most likely have to go to the source, aka, the Desert Wolf.

In Peter’s story he had initially returned to Beacon Hills a couple of nights before everything had gone so very wrong but he’d hidden his presence, ‘sensing’ that something was about to happen. Already anticipating what did indeed happen, he had found Malia the night she’d attacked Stiles running blood-soaked and almost out of her mind in the woods. He’d managed to pin her long enough for her to calm down and tell him what had happened. He’d responded by telling her that he was her biological father, that he had not an ounce of paternal instinct for her nor did he want to build a relationship with her, but that he’d help her out this one time for the good of his pack (which didn’t include her.)

Apparently he’d left Beacon Hills and headed to Texas on the hearsay that the Desert Wolf, Malia’s biological mother, was living down there. After much searching he’d found her and with some expert negotiating on his part she agreed to meet Malia. Apparently thanks to Peter she even extended a potential invitation for Malia to move down there permanently when she’d heard that Malia could do a full-shift like her so she could teach her control.

When Peter had told the cornered Malia this she had jumped at the chance, desperate to get out of Beacon Hills, and she had been quick to settle in the middle of the desert with her mother.

It hadn’t been very difficult for Peter to get his hands on the forms that would remove Malia’s last tie with Beacon Hills: that of the parental responsibility of her adoptive father, and on Peter’s final return to Beacon Hills, Malia had legally been under the protection of the Desert Wolf.

When Peter had ended his tale he’d looked as though he was about to do his usual slinking off trick, but Scott had snarled at him, halting him in his tracks, and with a put-upon sigh he’d dug into his pocket then handed Stiles a slip of paper with the Desert Wolf’s email address on it. As he was walking out of the door Peter had thrown over his shoulder that Stiles might want to keep tabs on Malia for his own peace of mind. Malia had apparently said that she had no intention of returning to Beacon Hills to Peter, but it wasn’t something he could guarantee.

It had taken Stiles more than two months to work up the courage to email the Desert Wolf, who had almost immediately responded (‘call me, Martha. That is not a request.’) updating him on Malia’s situation and her emotional mentality since she’d arrived in the desert. She immediately confirmed that Peter had been telling the truth in that Malia was still of the mind-set that she would never return to Beacon Hills and that she’d alert Stiles instantly if that ever changed.

Their online relationship had progressed from there.

Stiles had been quick to learn that, unsurprisingly, Peter had been stretching the truth with his tale more than a little, especially when it came to his ‘brave exploits’:

Martha lived on the edge of an exclusively supernatural town, which was something Stiles had been fascinated about and she’d enlightened him that there were usually at least two in every state.

They’d initially been set up to contain supernatural prisoners, as few of them could be contained in normal human prisons, and while that was still their main purpose they were also seen as retreats for the supernaturals who lived amongst the humans and grew tired of having to hide.

They remained ‘back water’ enough not to draw attention; careful to never go over a certain size, or have any events/teams etc that might draw too much attention. Any house sales were put through the community through word of mouth and tourism was discouraged.

Stiles was riveted and had been quick to discover the five that were in California, the closest of which he dragged Derek to at his earliest opportunity.

So, because no one had to hide their true natures in these communities, if you knew the right people it wasn’t hard to track Martha down. Peter had known the right people, turned up a few days after he’d left Beacon Hill and then hung around, winding up the locals and lounging by the pool at the hotel until Martha eventually got sick of him and beat the reason he was there out of him.

After that she’d gone to a local shaman to have her memories unlocked and had gone through the tricky and painful spell to help her recall her teen pregnancy. She’d bluntly explained to Stiles about being a naïve, young fifteen year old who had spent a summer with her pack/family in Beacon Hills to learn from the well-respected and much-older Hale pack.

Packs, Stiles had been fascinated to find, weren’t exclusive to just werewolves but rather stretched to most were’s since the human side of them usually craved a social group, the power balance was the same in that a were alone was weaker than one with a pack, and that they were generally safer together. So, it didn’t matter that they were were-coyotes while the Hales were werewolves, the principles of having a pack for unity, strength, and support were the same.

She’d been drawn to the just-turned-seventeen year old Peter Hale from the first meeting and he had always loved attention so he’d delighted in indulging her crush. It had inevitably ended up with them sleeping together and while they’d both tried to be careful, they were both inexperienced in knowing how to prevent pregnancy amongst their kind – they’d just gone along with what humans did and thought that condoms would be fine. When Martha had discovered that she was pregnant, Peter had panicked and tried to cut himself off from her, convinced that having a baby so young would ruin his life. It hadn’t taken much longer for both of the packs to realise what was happening and things had quickly grown ugly.

Martha, in her blind naivety, had been convinced that she was in love with Peter and that if they kept the baby then Peter would come to realise that he was in love with her too, so she’d refused an abortion. As the months wore on though, Peter’s stance in the matter didn’t budge an inch. Martha’s pack had resorted to pleading with the Hale’s for him to take responsibility and at least acknowledge the child, while the Hale’s had steadily closed rank around a terrified Peter, stating that he couldn’t be forced. By the time Martha realised that Peter would never feel for her the way she wanted him to and that basically trying to emotionally blackmail him with his child was wrong, the situation had completely got away from her. Her pack saw the Hale’s closed ranks as an act of aggression, the Hale’s in return were seeing Martha’s packs refusal to back down as a challenge, and the threat of violence was thick in the air. Both packs had extensive contacts in the supernatural community and if they were to call on them they’d end up with a war on their hands.

It had been the wake-up call Martha had needed, even though it cost her the last of her innocence. She was too far along in the pregnancy at that point to abort it and so she had taken a risk and had approached Talia Hale when the alpha was alone. Talia would have been well within her rights to strike her down and usually alphas as new as her (not even two years) would be quick to do so. Talia though had listened.

No one had blamed either Martha or Peter for the pregnancy itself because it had been an accident due to lack of information, so all parties reasoned that if anyone were to blame it was the adults for not educating their kids on the correct precautions to take during sex. Martha however knew that the reason things had progressed to the point it had had been because of her stubborn and childish idealised fantasy, and while Peter was being more than juvenile about the situation too she should have seen him for what he was – a scared teenager – and made peace with that, contenting herself with the fact that her child would be growing up in a strong pack where they would be loved. Instead she’d stood back and let her pack do what any good pack would do, which was to rally to her defence, until the situation had been blown way out of proportion and now they were on the verge of something terrible that would cost both sides greatly.

She’d prostrated herself before Talia, explaining it all and how she could finally see how thoughtless her behaviour had been. She would accept any punishment; do anything to fix things, as long as it didn’t harm the child.

Talia had been quiet for a long time, and then had told Martha to return again the next night at the same time and to bring her alpha, who was her aunt.

When Martha and her aunt had arrived there the next evening, Talia had already been there and she wasn’t alone. A man exuding an aura of calm was with her and he’d told Martha to call him Deaton.

Talia and Deaton had explained the only plan they’d been able to come up with that seemed to have any hope of completely negating the threat of war between their packs: for the baby to be placed with and raised by a family that wasn’t tied to either pack, while both alphas removed all memory of the pregnancy from their respected packs. They alone would keep the memories, so they could ensure that the child knew what it was growing up and would have the option of finding a place within two packs when it was of age. Martha’s aunt had agreed.

Just over a month later Martha’s water had broken, then the next thing she knew she and her pack were leaving Beacon Hills and no one really knew why they’d stayed there so long. Her aunt however remained tight-lipped with giving any sort of reason.

Three years later Martha’s aunt had been killed by a hunter and since she hadn’t had any children of her own, Martha had become the alpha. She’d found mention of _something_ happening in Beacon Hills in her aunt’s journals and how her aunt was meant to check in with Talia Hale about it every few years, but she’d been struggling to come to terms with her new power and it had quickly slipped her mind. In the difficult years that followed, resulting in almost the entirety of her pack being wiped out before they’d finally settled at the edge of this supernatural-only town in Texas, she’d never thought to look into it again. Then news had reached her about the decimation of the Hale pack and that, she’d thought, was that. Until Peter had turned up and it had all come out. At least it had explain her irrational hatred of him since she’s thought, before the memories had been revealed, that she barely knew him.

She’d beaten the tar out of Peter once more to satisfy her younger self over him being such an unmitigated coward and then had made Peter tell her everything about why he was there. So she’d learned about Malia.

Stiles had been quick to learn that Martha’s agreement to take Malia hadn’t been one of parental concern, but rather a sense of duty. She felt that since Malia was a were-coyote rather than wolf that that made Martha the most responsible for her, and since Peter was clearly so unfit to take on the role she had acquiesced. However, right from the moment Malia had stepped off the bus, Martha had made it clear she was more her prison warden than parent. Honestly, from the way she talked about it so bluntly, Stiles was very glad he’d never met Martha face-to-face; she sounded like a scarily hard woman.

Since all of the towns were designed to be prisons, Malia immediately had had a charmed, irremovable necklace placed on her that would alert everyone if she tried to leave the town or do harm to anyone. The type of charm would also stop the coyote side of her from becoming too strong – something that could only successfully work within a certain distance of a greater, linked powerbase or all new were’s would wear one – and the type of necklace also told the other supernaturals what she was, so those who would be more at risk around her could avoid her. Other than that her movement around the town wasn’t restricted.

While Martha didn’t reveal the gritty detail of Malia’s crimes to those she didn’t have to, it was mandatory that the gist of her crime be made public knowledge for everyone’s safety, and so the entire town knew that she had tried to force a spark to become her mate and had almost killed him for refusing her. Malia was now finding out the hard way that trying to force someone to mate with you was viewed as one of the biggest crimes in the supernatural community, as mating was permanent.

Martha though was a practical woman and she also made public knowledge Malia’s past. The town was a little more understanding after that, and while they didn’t let her get away with anything they also weren’t as cruel.

Apparently Malia too had also found that because everyone knew of her circumstances that she didn’t have to hide. If she didn’t understand something she could just say so, she was being taught on a one-on-one basis at a much more manageable level for her, and she was going to a therapist, who was also a were, twice a week. It was doing wonders for her temper.

Martha was also teaching her how to do a full shift again, but to this time have her human and were half’s balanced.

With the progress Malia had made she was now, a few years on, able to fully comprehend why what she had done to Stiles was so unacceptable.

Martha had told him that Malia’s therapist had made her write out a letter of apology for Stiles now that she could understand, and Martha had offered him the option of whether he wanted Malia to send it to him or not. He’d declined. Stiles didn’t have any contact with Malia herself and he didn’t want to ever see or hear from her again if he could help it. She may have been in some ways a victim as well, with the pressure put on her by people just expecting her to just ‘understand’ things whilst it was all but impossible for her to get the correct treatment given how much about herself she had to hide, as well as her being driven predominantly by her animal instincts, but he didn’t want to interact with her again, even if she was nothing but repentant.

The latest news on Malia was that she’d started to genuinely fall in love with another were-coyote in Martha’s pack; something which Martha was monitoring closely to ensure that Malia fully understood everything she was doing with him. So far everything had been more than fine, since that now Malia was gaining a proper understanding of a healthy, adult relationship she was even more devastated with what she’d put Stiles through and so was approaching this new relationship very, very slowly. According to Martha they hadn’t even held hands yet, and she was content with the idea that they wouldn’t get around to anything physical for probably at least another year.

Oddly enough Stiles found himself wishing Malia well with it, and had come to a point where he’d forgiven her as much as he was able. Doctor Khatri had been very proud of him.

“Stiles! Let’s go!”

“Coming!” Stiles yelled automatically as he was shaken from his thoughts and quickly went through the process of logging out and shutting down his laptop, before yanking the charger from the wall, wrapping it up and stuffing the cord along with his laptop into his bag.

He took one last look around the room, ensuring he’d got everything, before giving a slight nod and dashing out.

As he leapt down the last of the stairs he was greeted with the sight of Jackson and Isaac play-wrestling, while Scott cheered them on, and John stood to the side trying to look exasperated but unable to hide the way his lips were quirking up at the edges.

“Finally,” Jackson scoffed as he tried and failed to wiggle out of Isaac’s headlock. “You finished, you geek? Let go of me, man, you’re messing up my hair.”

“God forbid,” Isaac teased but released him anyway.

“Ha ha, you’re hilarious,” Stiles said drolly at Jackson as he grabbed his sunglasses. Jackson responded by rolling his eyes at him.

“Okay,” Stiles continued, clapping his hands together excitedly. “We all ready?”

“We’ve been ready for the past fifteen minutes, we’ve just been waiting on your slow ass,” his dad teased, making the others snicker. Stiles looked down his nose at his father and sniffed in a mock-outraged fashion.

“Well forgive me for being thorough when responding to emails, you plebeians. Let’s go then, oh patient ones.”

Sniggering they piled out of the house to greet the early morning light, an empty street, and a fairly large U-Haul truck at the end of the driveway.

“Okay, so you know to call one of us if you want to take a break,” John said as he locked the door behind him while Isaac and Jackson were already bouncing off across the grass to the truck.

“Yeah dad, and you guys do likewise,” Stiles grinned.

“Well, I’m pretty stuffed from breakfast, so unless we pull in at a rest stop I’m planning on making it there in one go.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” beside Stiles, Scott’s grin became a little feral.

“Oh no, I’m not falling for that one, boys. You are to call me and we’ll all pull over if you need to pee. I don’t want to get there only to find that one of your bladders have ruptured or something equally idiotic.”

Unanimously both Stiles and Scott sagged a little, equally fake pouts fixed on their faces.

“I mean it, boys,” John said sternly before softening and ruffling a hand through both of their hair to much protest. “Drive safe,” and then he was heading over to the truck.

As he walked he tucked his house keys back into his pocket, and Stiles’ eyes were drawn to the sun catching on a small keyring before it disappeared: his dad’s one year sober token.

It had taken a few months of convincing on Doctor Khatri’s part, but John had finally conceded that he needed more support to stop his drinking that he could get from her as it was something she could never really empathise with him on.

He’d dug his heels in for so long because he couldn’t attend any of the nearby AA meetings on account of the risk of someone recognising him as the Sheriff, which even with the confidentiality around the AA, could still put his job at risk.

Doctor Khatri managed to find an online meeting group of the AA which she felt could work, as it was meant for people who, for whatever reason, couldn’t risk going to any local support groups. All of the attendees had to be referred by their doctor, who would also be their ‘buddy’ so they had someone physically nearby to support them, and instead of sending out the standard ‘however-many-years-sober’ tags, the participants were encouraged to either make their own or have someone they were close to make them.

So, a little over six months ago, Stiles had proudly made one for his dad. He felt that same flare of pride every time he saw it unobtrusively hanging on John’s keys, a constant reminder of how far his dad had come. He was already starting to plan out the two-year tag.

“So what soundtrack should we listen to first?” Scott asked as they made their way over to where Stiles’ jeep was parked, the back stuffed full of bags and boxes.

“I dunno,” Stiles mused as he unlocked both doors and they slid inside. “Something upbeat since I haven’t woken up properly yet. I hate having to wake up before seven.”

“You should have had more coffee,” Scott sang, almost bouncing in his seat and looking unfairly awake.

“And you know that if I have more than two cups at once I need the bathroom within an hour,” Stiles griped back as he started the jeep, feeling it judder to life beneath him.

“Fair enough, how about the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack then?”

“Sounds good. Line it up, Scotty.”

As Scott grinned and pulled out his phone to set everything up with the Bluetooth speaker, the truck at the end of the drive roared to life and then slowly peeled away from the curb.

Instead of rushing after it, Stiles waited until the first song was booming out from the speakers before putting the jeep into gear and setting off.

It took them an hour to get onto Highway 101 and from there it was an easy if rather long trip until they needed to take the turnoff for the 580 and cross the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. Then it was onto the 80, over onto the 123, then following that for a few minutes before turning off onto the residential streets and twenty minutes later they’d be there.

“Looking forward to getting back, dude?” Scott asked once they’d finished their much more important debate over who should play Wonder Woman in the upcoming movie.

“Yeah,” Stiles smiled as he stared out at the road in front of him. “I always miss you guys like crazy, but I’m looking forward to getting back and starting classes again.”

“Can’t believe we’re already starting our second year of college!” Scott enthused. “I felt like we just started and we’re already sophomores.”

Stiles nodded.

“Before we know it we’ll be graduating.”

“Arg!” Scott flailed exaggeratedly, making Stiles laugh. “No don’t! Before you know it we’ll be thirty.”

“Dude, we’re twenty. It’ll take a little longer for a decade to go past.”

“Still though,” Scott moaned, sounding so miserable that Stiles had to say something.

“Yeah, and we’ll still be as close at thirty as we are now at twenty.”

“Aw shucks,” Stiles could see Scott fluttering his lashes at him in his periphery. “You always know what to say to me.”

“Well, I am your second, man, along with Derek. Would be a little pointless if I didn’t.”

They laughed and then relaxed back into listening to the music as the landscape slid past outside.

What Scott had said was true though. Stiles could barely believe he was returning to college for his second year. For a while he hadn’t been sure he’d be getting into college at all, let alone one as good as Berkeley.

Stiles could still remember as clearly as though it had been yesterday returning to school to finish off his junior year and what a struggle it had been.

Word had spread pretty quickly after Stiles had been hospitalised that an arrest warrant was out on Malia and it had something to do with him being in the hospital, but no one at school had twigged what exactly she was wanted for until an officer at the department had complained to his daughter one night about being unable to find her, and the whole department being up in arms over what she’d done to Stiles. The girl had innocently told her friend, who had not so innocently spread it to anyone who would listen; so Stiles had returned to school as the first (known) male domestic abuse victim there.

Some people had been supportive, most hadn’t known what to make of it or didn’t care – too busy with their own lives – and just avoided him; some though, more than he’d dreaded, seemed to take Stiles being abused by a woman as an attack on their own masculinity. By the end of the first week, Stiles had had to return to the hospital to have his ankle checked as someone had tried to push him down one of the flights of stairs when he was alone; only Stiles’ quick reflexes had saved him when he’d managed to catch himself on the side rail. Thankfully he hadn’t re-broken it, but it had been weakened again.

Every time he was alone after that he was targeted in some way, inciting flashbacks and panic attacks, but thankfully they didn’t get so physical with him again. The pack had been furious, braying for blood, but it had been Lydia and Danny who had found the group responsible – unsurprisingly some football jocks, a few of whom had been in Stiles’ class for the RAINN lecture at the start of everything – and had done something which had petrified the life out of them. They never bothered Stiles again after that and to this day no one had managed to get out of Lydia and Danny what it was they had done; they would just both smiled mysteriously and act smug for a while.

After that, with the pack rallying wonderfully around him, Stiles managed to successfully fly through his end of year exams and go on to senior year.

Another surprise that had come while Stiles was recovering from the whole bullying fiasco was Jackson emailing him out of the blue.

It turned out he’d kept in touch with a few people he’d been friendly with on the lacrosse team after he’d moved to the UK and one of them had updated him on the latest ‘gossip’ which was all about how Stiles had been almost killed by the crazy wild-girl he’d been dating. Unable to let it go, Jackson had summoned up the courage to email Lydia, who had left him hanging for weeks while she helped look after Stiles and had then sent him a rant of an email for not getting in touch with her earlier.

After she deemed he had grovelled enough she had caught him up on everything he’d missed out on after leaving. He’d been shocked on hearing about Erica and Boyd’s deaths, flabbergasted about Scott becoming a True Alpha and Derek sacrificing his own alpha powers, horrified on hearing about Stiles becoming possessed, gutted on hearing about Allison’s death, and then deeply shaken on hearing about what Malia had done to Stiles.

A few days later Stiles had received the email from him, in which Jackson had actually _apologised_ for being such an ass to him for so many years. Then Jackson had gone on to explain that he knew what it felt like to be used as a puppet and to be forced to kill people, and that it had taken a lot of therapy from a psychologist that a powerful pack in London had sent him to, to help him come a little more to terms with what he’d done while he wasn’t in control. He’d ended by awkwardly saying that he was there if Stiles ever needed to talk.

Stiles eventually took him up on it and almost shockingly quickly they fell into a comfortable pattern of exchanging a couple of emails a week. They started to open up to each other outside of the whole ‘we were both used to kill people’ thing, and Jackson ended up confessing how much he missed Beacon Hills, and that he hadn’t been able to join any of the packs in London, apparently because his wolf at least still viewed Stiles and the others as his pack. Stiles had felt as though Jackson wasn’t telling him everything though and after a lot of prodding and more than a week of sullen silence on Jackson’s part, Jackson finally cracked and confessed that even if his wolf hadn’t still been attached to the Beacon Hills pack, none of the packs in London would have been willing to take him on.

They were all very large and old packs, most of whom had direct ties to either royalty or someone in a position of power in either the government or trade.

When Jackson had turned up, newly bitten, a mess of cliché American arrogance and PTSD, thinking he could buy his way into the best of them, he had been quick to learn just how wrong he was.

Europe was where werewolves had originated from, and so too the hunters, so in places like Britain the majority of the packs were very old and governed by many rules. There were many reasons for the rules; the main being that the ancient packs were well-known to the equally ancient hunter families, who typically were always closely tied to the packs, usually through business, so they would have an excuse to keep an eye on them.

Many packs and hunter families had been tied together for so long that they rigidly governed themselves because they didn’t want to ruin the status quo; both sides having grown fond of their current peaceful standing. So, the packs had a zero-tolerance policy for out-of-control werewolves, and likewise the hunters had the same approach to any over-zealous hunters who would target innocent weres. People like Kate were quickly and brutally dealt with. Rouge werewolves were swiftly found, given that Britain didn’t have the wild space for them to vanish into and there was a major pack in every county, so biting’s such as the one Scott suffered were very rare.

All in all, the hunters and the werewolves had developed a relationship that neither side wanted to lose, and so they did their own policing on their own kind.

Enter Jackson, who refused to listen to commands, was only out for himself, was aggressive with hunters, refused to listen to advice to learn how to control his wolf half, would typically think that he always knew best, threw about his money in a very unsubtle way and so drawing too much attention, refused to get any type of support for his issues, and then expecting to be welcomed with open arms because his parents were rich and he was good looking. Was it any wonder why all of the packs point-blank refused to allow him to join?

It was only after Jackson had broken out of the abandoned warehouse he’d locked himself in during his first full moon there, which resulted in him almost being ‘put down’ by a hunter-werewolf tag team, that one of the packs had relented a little and had given him an ultimatum: either he started getting proper treatment for his myriad of problems, which should help him control his wolf, and the pack would offer him a secure place to spend the full moons, or he got out of the UK. Jackson went with the former, and while his choice had led to him gaining control over his wolf and being able to face up to his problems it had also made him have to face up to just how much his attitude had isolated himself. Seeing the way the London packs had interacted, with such affection and trust, had been a very painful experience for him as he’d learnt too late what he could have had and what his wolf needed. He’d become very lonely.

It was because of this that it was no surprise for Stiles to one day open his door during the summer between junior and senior year to find Jackson standing there, looking still as much of a douche as ever but a slightly nervous smile on his lips. Then his nose had wrinkled.

“Okay, Lydia did mention this but I didn’t believe her. You and Derek? Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Stiles had smirked and leaned on the door frame. “Problem?”

Jackson had rolled his eyes and lightly pushed Stiles on the shoulder.

“Nah, it means at least one of you guys will look good next to me when we’re seen out in public together.”

Stiles had snorted and let him in.

They’d ended up forming a solid relationship. At times Jackson would fall back into bad habits and go a little too far with his asshole-attitude, or Stiles would, and they’d have one hell of an argument, not talk to each other for a week, and then be fine again the next. It worked for them.

The crunch had come with Jackson becoming a proper part of the pack.

Scott had welcomed him back once he’d observed just how much Jackson had changed. Yes, he was still an ass, but he was more careful with his words, finally aware of just how much they could hurt someone. His wolf was actually a huge help with that, while also proving how much control he now had, because he could use his senses to tell when he was taking things too far and could pull back before he really upset someone. He still struggled to care about people outside of the pack, but it was a work in progress.

However, some within the pack had a slightly harder time with him coming back, namely Isaac.

They had circled each other cautiously for weeks, Jackson at a loss as to why Isaac was continuing to be so hostile towards him and so reverting back to being hostile himself to hide his insecurity, before it had all come to ahead one evening after a pack meeting, when Jackson had unintentionally mentioned Isaac’s father.

No one was really surprised to discover that Isaac had never forgiven Jackson for living opposite him for years, _knowing_ Isaac’s father regularly beat the shit out of him and doing nothing to stop it.

The only surprise that evening had come from Isaac almost killing Jackson, and he probably would have if the others hadn’t been there to pull him off.

For several weeks after Jackson would only let Lydia and Stiles near him and through them relaying what Jackson told them in nonsensical, broken little fragments back to the rest of the pack they were able to put it all together to come up with the answer as to why Jackson had never done anything.

It was true many of Jackson’s insecurities stemmed from his issues with his birth parents, but many more than previously thought also stemmed from his adoptive parents. There was never any question that they loved Jackson and spoiled him ridiculously. At least one of them was always there to attend all of his games, and they would always ensure that no matter how much work they were bogged down with that they would always spend at least one day of the weekend together with him.

Their problem was that any positive affection coming from them only seemed to be aimed at Jackson and they had no problem treating other people abominably; and that was something Jackson had been quick to copy from them while growing up. So, the problem hadn’t been that Jackson had known what was happening to Isaac and did nothing; it was that he was emulating his parents, who had gone down the unforgivable path of being adults that had known what was happening to Isaac and still doing nothing.

Isaac had brooded over the new information for some time before demanding to talk to Jackson with Doctor Khatri there to mediate. They had closed themselves off in the study at the Stiles’ house for almost an entire day before they managed to come to some kind of resolution.

After that things had been rather fragile between the two, but it was clear to see they were both trying. Both seemed lost though in how to get their relationship into a more trusting state until they stumbled across the fact that they both loved period drama. And so, early one Saturday morning, they both invited themselves over to the Stilinski-Hale house (apparently it was natural ground for them, but Stiles thought they did it just to screw with him,) and settled in to a weekend long period-drama binge. John had vanished almost instantly, stammering something about work as he was scrambling towards the door, and there was only so much Elizabethan England Stiles could take before he needed to excuse himself. (Or rather it was the _limited_ side of Elizabethan England shown that exacerbated him, and he’d constantly be demanding they showed the more historically-accurate grim side of things, annoying Jackson and Isaac into throwing popcorn at him.) Derek though, despite being a history buff and so Stiles thinking him a traitor, got quite into it and managed to entice Stiles down every now and again.

After the weekend the start of a solid friendship had well and truly formed between Jackson and Isaac, so Stiles couldn’t really be too annoyed.

Now including Jackson, the pack managed to make it through their senior year with only a few new supernatural bad guys showing up when they were drawn in by the Nemeton. Stiles however, once Scott had approached him about both him and Derek becoming his joint seconds, (covering both the werewolf, human, and magic side of things all in one fell swoop,) had come up with a solution and worked together with Deaton and Doctor Khatri to form a healing barrier to place on the tree, prompting new growth. The Nemeton had been a natural and wild force before it had been chopped down, and had only turned dark because of its untimely demise. With the barrier in place soon there were new sprouts popping up all over it, and the more they grew the more dark energy they absorbed.

Scott himself grew too. After everything that happened, he finally stepped wholeheartedly into his role as alpha. His sessions with Doctor Khatri helped enormously with his acceptance of his role, and she had been the one to work out that the darkness around his heart from his sacrifice that he’d thought he’d contained was still causing him problems. As it was linked to his denial and fear of his wolf, it had stepped up to making him want to deny his role as alpha once he became one. Once he knew what was happening he knew what signs to look for and could counter them before they got too bad again.

Scott and Stiles had many conversations about the way the darkness around their hearts individually affected them, and how similar-yet-different it was for them both since for Scott it formed as a blatant denial of a side of himself, whereas with Stiles it was an enhancement of his own darkness.

As their darkness was linked to the Nemeton, which was now gradually healing, both of them had noticed that it had eased somewhat and had become more manageable, which in turn boosted Scott’s moral, bringing everyone together even more until even the most traditional werewolf couldn’t deny that they were a proper pack.

So, with the fully-formed pack ties to support anyone when they weakened, and bringing a new sense of closeness, affection and trust between them all, those in the pack in their final school year managed to graduate and get into the colleges of their choice: Lydia and Danny were at MIT and had left a few days before, where Lydia was double majoring in Mathematics and Brain and Cognitive Science, while Danny was studying Electrical Engineering and Computer Science.

Kira and Jackson had managed to get into Columbia and Jackson was rather predictably studying Law, whereas Kira was studying History (specifically Asian History), meaning she was excitedly squeaking down the phone to Derek most evenings. Some evenings though and at the weekends she helped out at a Karate dojo as a job and she believed she may have found her calling with it, but she wanted to finish college first.

Scott and Isaac had stayed in Beacon Hills: Scott because as the alpha of the territory it was difficult for him to leave it for long. He’d talked extensively to Deaton about his situation, as he really wanted to study to become a vet, and they’d managed to find a way around it by Deaton writing him a glowing reference letter for a small specialist college barely an hour’s drive from Beacon Hills where he was highly respected and was invited to give regular seminars. Scott had got accepted, much to his delight, and now happily jetted off on his motorbike each morning and came back to his home each evening.

Isaac meanwhile had wanted to stay with Scott and hadn’t had such grand aspirations education-wise as the others. He liked working with his hands and the idea of a job where he’d be sitting on his ass most days was off-putting for him, so he’d had several careers advice meetings with his teachers, all of which had just left him more frustrated until Coach had caught him whittling a piece of wood one day.

“Why don’t you just take the carpentry course at the local community college and you can do woodworking on the side, you idiot,” Coach had snapped at the bemused Isaac before snatching the half carved wolf from Isaac’s hands (blatantly missing that Isaac had been using his claws to carve) and stomping off.

It was to the great amusement of the pack to find the wolf in pride of place on top of Coach’s desk a few days later. Isaac had then signed up to both courses and was enjoying himself immensely.

Liam and Mason were living it up as seniors and were already trying to work out where they could go to college together. Liam had come on in leaps and bounds once he’d got his anger under control and both were considered school heart-throbs (something which managed to reduce them to giggly messes each time it was mentioned.)

Absurdly enough the main reason as to why they were most excited to finish high school, instead of the more understandable concepts, was because then they could _finally_ use Doctor Khatri’s first name like all the others in the pack.

When Scott had realised that he was instinctively seeing Doctor Khatri as pack a few months after he’d first met her he had approached her about officially joining. She had agreed on a few conditions: the main one was that he consider the idea of her becoming the pack emissary, a position she was well suited for as she already knew what would be expected of her, as well as the fact that her counselling the pack meant she had to maintain a certain distance to ensure she didn’t develop any hindering bias/conflict of interest.

Scott, after talking to Deaton, Derek, and Stiles, had agreed.

The second condition was that only those in the pack who graduated high school were allowed to call her by her first name. She said it was an incentive, but had looked so smugly teasing about it Stiles could instantly tell she was trolling them. Still, because Scott agreed the rest of the pack had to adhere and so Mason and Liam had grown very frustrated with the fact that they were currently the only ones not allowed to use her first name.

In a show of epic maturity everyone else ensure to use her first name as often as possible around them just to watch them squirm.

In fact there was only one adult who still referred to her by her title, who, to the surprise of most, was Peter.

Peter was in fact a dizzying mash of in awe of and terrified of Doctor Khatri, since she demonstrated very early on when he tried his typical scary/flirty dominating routine on her that she could pull his world out from under him and metaphorically strip him bear with only a few words.

She had been dead-set on counselling him in particular, especially after he quite literally started running away from her to avoid the appointments, and it wasn’t until both Scott and Derek had to physically drag him to them and she did her neat little magic-calming trick on him that he started to grudgingly go along with it. Possibly unbeknownst to him, he was showing impressive improvement and Derek had recently theorised that Peter was mentally the healthiest he’d seen him since before the fire.

Then there was Melissa, who was responsible for the delicious cupcakes that were fast disappearing in the Tupperware box between Scott and Stiles that was jammed behind the handbrake.

She had, as always, promised to keep an eye on what the Sheriff was eating while Stiles wasn’t there, and he’d managed to get the same promise out of Parrish while his dad was working.

The two of them together were the perfect tag-team and according to Scott sometimes had secretive meetings over coffee and cake to discuss how to manage John’s eating.

If Melissa couldn’t be around John in his downtime, then Parrish would turn up, using the excuse of brainstorming his still-difficult-to-manage powers and how he could control them.

Stiles had managed to figure out that whatever he was was something to do with a phoenix but they still didn’t have a clear idea. John, loving nothing more than a good puzzle, never questioned Parrish’s sudden appearances and they could lose an entire day bouncing ideas back and forth.

That just left Stiles, who had wanted to study relatively close to Beacon Hills so he could drive back within a day if there was an emergency, which was why he’d been so delighted to get into Berkeley. It was not only an excellent university, but it also meant that he’d be within a six hour drive (if he pushed it) of his dad, Scott, and Derek.

The only down-side had been that he’d be the only pack member on his own. It had made things for him much more difficult leading up to the start of his first year:

He’d wanted to try the dorms to experience the proper ‘student life’ for the first year, but he’d had to specially request a single dorm due to his PTSD, panic attacks, and nightmares, which he’d been granted.

It had meant that he’d had a safe space to go to when things got too much, and a retreat at the end of the day, as well as the fact that he could semi-openly store his magic books (he told the few friends he let into his room that they were for a project on his mythology course – he kept his herbs and weapons hidden though), but it also meant that he was going back to an empty room, and sleeping in an empty bed at night, after he’d come to rely on Derek always being there.

He and Derek had got around this until he could cope a little better (frankly until the _both_ of them could cope better) by going to sleep while on skype to each other. Derek had managed to call Stiles loudly enough through it to wake Stiles from a few nightmares, and vice versa.

Because Stiles had been in the dorms for the first year it had meant that even in a single he hadn’t had much space for stuff and that he’d gone home every holiday, so he’d only ever had a couple of suitcases at most. It had been more than handy for a few emergencies that had sprung up over the year, meaning he’d had to clear out quickly. Now though for his second year he was moving into an unfurnished apartment.

The first year had been a huge achievement, but it had been very hard, and every time Stiles had been overwhelmed by something he’d felt as though he was letting everyone down.

The first time it had happened, a month into the first semester, he’d ended up sobbing to Derek down the phone late one evening, saying he didn’t think he could do it. He’d been woken at seven the next morning to a knocking on his door, had opened it to find Derek, and had proceeded to thrown himself into his wolf’s arms, bawling like a baby while his confused RA (who had later confessed that he’d thought Derek was there to beat Stiles up or something because he’d been glaring and growling at everything,) had edged nervously away down the corridor.

After that Derek would come down every two-to-three weekends to spend them with him. They both needed it, while it also gave them the chance to find the perfect balance in their relationship; the long distance gave them enough space from each other to figure things out on their own so they didn’t become a crutch to each other, but seeing each other on a semi-regular basis made their time together all the more precious.

With no pressure on each other they found that they naturally went from speaking several times a week to several times a day without realising.

Derek remained living at the Stilinski house, on the orders of John, which pleased Stiles greatly because it was good for both Derek and his dad not to be alone for extended periods of time. (Now though the Stilinski house was used as a stop-off point for the pack and there was almost always someone hanging around there.) Derek was out of the loft Boyd had died in, and John knew how to handle someone with PTSD and depression, (and it also meant that Stiles could secretly recruit Derek into the ‘watching what the Sheriff eats’ Club.)

There were still times when Derek needed to be alone, and the first time he’d disappeared without any forewarning and dropped off the grid for several days John had panicked and almost called out a search on him. It was only thanks to him calling Stiles first that he hadn’t and Derek had returned in a much better state of mind almost a week later. As time wore on the amount of time Derek would vanish for shrank, although Stiles knew and accepted that he would always need moments to himself from time to time since he was an introvert.

Stiles found that while he might not need the same amount of time as Derek, there were times when he’d just need a day or so to himself as well where he wouldn’t have to speak to or interact with anyone.

Whilst John had struggled a little initially, leery of letting his son out of his sight for too long, he had come to accept it. Derek hadn’t even blinked when Stiles had told him and had always been nothing but supportive with it. The pack as a whole had been very compassionate to the both of them about it, and while some of them may never be able to fully understand they would never try to get in the way of it when it needed to happen.

Probably the thing that showed Stiles how far Derek had come with the help of a supportive pack, doctor, and lover, was Derek joining the local fire department.

He had quickly become the best firefighter in town (and had also helped hugely whenever the fire department had done a charity event as he drew in the drooling masses like bees to nectar) which had made Derek feel for the first time as though he really had control over something that had crippled him before. It had been a massive leap in his healing process and had left Doctor Khatri, who was now formally known as the packs psychologist (and was fairly paid for it as she’d dropped her hours at the hospital to part time because of them,) in floods of happy tears.

Seeing Derek so happy had helped Stiles a lot as well, which in turn had spurred Derek to greater heights and he’d finally been able to tackle the apartment building where the loft apartment resided. (Imagine everyone’s surprise when he’d smugly told them he owned it while Stiles had cackled at the looks on their faces in the background.)

He’d managed to turn the building in a few short months with the help of local contractors into a decadent set of large, industrial-boho-chic apartments that people demanded to pay ridiculous sums of money to rent.

Due to the impressive income, Derek had followed Lydia’s advice and bought another derelict building across the street from it and had successfully transformed those as well. He’d stopped there, saying he didn’t want to manage any more tenants and had more than enough money coming in from them, but his work had made other people see the potential in the abandoned industrial district and pretty soon other derelict buildings were being transformed into apartments, and shops were starting to crop up all over the place.

The local newspaper had done an article about him, destroying the last vestige of his ‘criminal’ image, and it felt as though almost everyone in the town had been delighted to discover that Derek was living with the Sheriff and dating his son, officially making Derek and Stiles a power couple and Derek the town darling.

“You know,” Stiles said, jerking Scott out of his daze as he’d watched the scenery roll by. “I’m really thankful that you guys have all been here for me and Derek over the past few years. Couldn’t have done this without you, dude, you know that right?”

Scott looked like he wanted nothing more than to hug him, which would definitely be a bad idea when they were speeding along the highway. Instead he settled for giving Stiles his trademark beaming grin, which always made Stiles feel warm and fuzzy, and then leaned over to lightly punch Stiles on the shoulder.

“You guys would have managed just fine without us. The two of you together could probably take over the world.”

“Nah, that’s Lydia and Kira,” Stiles sniggered and Scott laughed along with him before continuing.

“It’s been our privilege, I promise you, to see you two go from strength to strength. You make us know we can get through anything and I can’t tell you how important that is to the rest of us at times. You’re my brother, Stiles, and I love you, but you’re also my second; someone who I can count on to have my back, just like I can with Derek.”

“Aw, dude,” Stiles complained jokingly. “Don’t make me tear up while I’m driving.”

“Not trying to, man,” Scott said warmly. “You and Derek are awesome, and you guys are even more kick-ass together. I’m so happy you’ve found each other.”

“Thanks,” Stiles managed to get roughly out and grinned across at the young man who was his sibling in all but blood.

With following the U-Haul, the trip took them just over eight hours, and then they were pulling up in front of the old, but very well kept apartment building.

Stiles immediately spotted Derek’s Toyota a little further down the road with an empty U-Haul trailed attached to the back of it, and Derek himself was already waiting on the sidewalk, ready to help Isaac, Jackson and John with the bigger furniture.

“Hey,” Stiles called as he jumped out of the jeep, relieved to be stretching his legs after so long.

Derek instantly zeroed in on him, grinned, jogged over and swept him up in a kiss that made it seem like he hadn’t seen Stiles in weeks, instead of just whatever god-forsaken time it was that he got up that morning.

“Hey,” Derek said back after he’d pulled away enough to give Stiles room to breathe.

“I didn’t even hear you leave this morning. What time did you sneak out?” Stiles asked a little breathlessly, ignoring Scott’s exaggerated gagging noises from behind them. Derek sent his alpha a wolfish grin before focusing on Stiles again.

“I set off around five.”

“Well, that’s it,” Stiles stated dramatically as Jackson, Isaac, and his dad rounded the back of the truck to look at them in interest. “I’m dating a mad man. Woe is me.”

Derek snorted and looked disbelieving, looking every part a sexily-disdainful Abercrombie and Fitch model as he stood there in his jeans and henley, and Stiles was so teasing him about that later as he loved making Derek blush like a tomato.

“Oh really? This coming from the guy who just last week wanted to test the hypothesis of what would happen if someone tried to drink a Red Bull and coffee every hour over the course of a day to, and I quote, ‘see what the fuck happens, relax Derek.’”

The sniggering was already starting up behind Stiles as he valiantly tried to keep a straight face, but Derek was doing that damned little smirk that without-fail always made him grin.

“I found you in the garden at three AM and you kept on telling me how the bushes were being too noisy for you to sleep, so you were going to trim them. You’d already completely destroyed three by that point.”

Now everyone was laughing, even John, who hadn’t been happy to discover the mess Stiles had made that next morning.

“They were too noisy,” Stiles maintained, failing to supress the grin anymore. “Bushes only swish that loud if they’re looking for attention.”

“I rest my case,” Derek said, looking insufferably smug. Stiles responded maturely by sticking his tongue out at him, which prompted Derek to kiss him again, which Stiles _definitely_ didn’t have a problem with.

“Alright you two,” John called exasperatedly. “I walk in on enough of that at home; do I have to put up with this now?”

“Yes,” Stiles confirmed as he broke away from Derek’s tempting lips, but John’s interruption had done the trick and they all focused on the task at hand, which was getting everything upstairs.

With four werewolves, even if the four werewolves were trying to be subtle about their strength, (which they all failed at, and if it hadn’t been for John being there while Stiles was up in the apartment, a group of mothers pushing baby strollers would have had the shock of their lives,) it didn’t take them long to get everything into the apartment and it was nearing six when they finished.

Famished, but not wanting to cook anything or order in, Derek and Stiles announced that they’d be taking everyone out for a meal as a thank you.

They went to a lovely little restaurant with what Stiles swore was out-of-this-world food that he’d stumbled upon in his first year. Their meal was as amazing as promised and filled with lots of laughter.

Afterwards, Stiles and Derek walked John, Isaac, Jackson, and Scott to a hotel that was just a couple of blocks away from the apartment.

Before they’d left Beacon Hills the night before they’d invited the others to stay with them but had been heartily turned down.

“Staying with you two the first night you share in your little love-nest? No thanks,” Jackson had scoffed while the others had nodded emphatically from where they were stretched out around the Stilinski-Hale living room. “Otherwise I’ll end up trying to tear my ears off.”

“We’re not that bad,” Stiles had tried to protest but he’d been met with several very flat looks.

“You guys can’t even keep your hands off each other when you’re being platonic,” Scott had said as kindly as possible while gesturing to where Stiles and Derek were entwined on the couch.

It wasn’t the first time they’d been teased over how tactile they were with each other and it wouldn’t be the last. While Derek was now more physical with the other members of the pack, and they in turn had become more prone to it too, he still hadn’t admitted to any of the bitten wolves how much he actually needed to touch. Stiles reckoned Lydia had figured it out, but he wasn’t surprised, since every time she saw Derek now she found some way to touch him (in a very platonic manner of course, not that anyone would think otherwise given how deeply Stiles and Derek cared for each other, as well as the romantic relationship that was steadily building between Lydia and Parrish, who most of the time just followed her around looking awed.)

Stiles was more than happy to be Derek’s go-to cuddle buddy as he found himself craving physical intimacy almost as often, however he was still rather jumpy when it came to one of the girls hugging him, and it didn’t always feel quite right for Stiles to wrap himself around one of the other guys, like an itch he couldn’t reach, so he’d soon gravitate back to Derek. Anyway, Derek was by far and away the best cuddler.

Peter meanwhile seemed to cope with his own need to be tactile by being his usual creepy self and sprawling over someone when they least expected it (his favourites were currently Stiles, unsurprisingly, and Liam), or sparring with one of the other wolves.

Once the group had reached the hotel, the others had excused themselves with lots of hugs, as though they weren’t going to see them again in the morning before heading back, and when John had pulled out of his hug with Stiles, he’d looked him very seriously in the eye and told him how proud he was of him. Then he’d looked over at Derek and said he was damned proud of him too.

He’d left the two of them standing stunned outside of the hotel, and followed the others inside with a little smirk.

Stiles and Derek had walked back on cloud nine and now it had come down to Stiles and Derek being left alone for the evening in their new apartment. Honestly though, while they loved the others they weren’t about to complain.

The apartment itself was lovely; the kitchen and living area was open plan, with original wooden floors and mouldings, and windows lining almost the entirety of one wall, letting in plenty of light and giving a charming view of the park they were opposite. Half way between the windows were a set of rolling doors that opened up onto a sizable balcony, where Stiles planned to have a small grill and Derek was reassured that they had another exit.

At far end of the room was two doors that led to the master and guest bedroom, and a short hallway which contained the bathroom and a smaller room Stiles and Derek planned to use as their office.

The character and original features of the place had been what drew them in, but it also helped tremendously that they were less than a twenty minute walk from campus.

Now though, it was still full of un-opened boxes and so Stiles and Derek set to unpacking a few more before bed.

To start with they focused on the bedroom, so they’d actually have somewhere comfortable to sleep when they finally crashed. It was already almost done to the point where it would be acceptable for them to stay in – their boxes of clothes for the closet could be left for later, but the bed needed to be put together and the box marked ‘bedroom basics’ which contained things like chargers needed to be unpacked.

Stiles and Derek quickly managed to finish the bed and then Derek, at Stiles’ say-so went back out into the main room to continue unboxing out there while Stiles finished up. Really all that was absolutely necessary for him to do was unpack the ‘basics’ box, and he did just that. After he’d dug out the chargers, and the bedside lamps, he notices the slim, dark book left at the bottom of the box and pulled it out, knowing instantly what it was.

He carefully carried the journal around to Derek’s side of the bed and placed it inside the bedside table drawer, ensuring that there was a pen lying ready next to it. He knew and valued how precious it was to Derek, who had started to write in it at Doctor Khatri’s prompting when he revealed that outside of Stiles he still had trouble opening up emotionally to the rest of the pack. Doctor Khatri had explained to him that writing out his thoughts and feelings could be very purgative, helping him clear his head, and hopefully would eventually lead him to feeling secure enough to start opening up to the others. Derek had taken her words to heart, but had initially been a little hesitant until she’d confirmed with him that he didn’t have to show anyone what he’d written.

Once he’d got into the swing of it he’d started to write in it around Stiles, and it wasn’t unusual for Stiles to find it open on their desk when he came into their room. Stiles, however, made it clear right from the get-go to Derek that he’d never look in it without Derek’s permission, and he even went so far as to spell the book so if anyone but Derek (and Stiles as he was the caster, which couldn’t be helped,) were to pick it up they’d be disinclined to open it.

Stiles wouldn’t have held it against Derek if he’d never shared anything from the journal with him, but almost a year after Stiles’ being hospitalised and his subsequent suicide attempt, Derek had started sleeping less, constantly disturbed by nightmares, and wrote in the journal more and more. Eventually he broke down and read some extracts to Stiles.

Stiles had thought that the nightmares might have been about Malia, and the scene that Derek had literally leapt in on in the kitchen, and Derek had indeed had a few nightmares about that. Stiles hadn’t been prepared though for the amount of nightmares Derek had been having about not reaching Stiles in time on the hospital roof.

It had been a very tearful, painful-yet-cathartic evening.

Derek’s most common repeating nightmare was still of him not reaching Stiles in time, which happened more frequently the more stressed he was, but with the counselling, his journal, starting to open up to the rest of the pack, and Stiles himself, they were noticeably dropping.

Stiles gave the bedside table a firm pat, content that the most important item in the room (to him at least) was in place, before heading back out into the living area and finding Derek tangled up in a clothes hanger and half inside a box.

Together (after Stiles had extracted Derek, unable to stop giggling all the while) the very first thing they set about doing in the main room was putting up their photos on the wall; they’d ended up creating a nice pattern in their bedroom at the Stilinski-Hale house that they wanted to replicate here and they both agreed it worked best on the wide, blank stretch of wall to one side of the front door. Carefully Stiles pulled the framed pictures from their box and unwrapped them while Derek used the drill to make a place for them on the wall before he’d take the frame from Stiles’ hands and hang it.

Before long the last picture had been put up and they stepped back to take in their work: the photos spiralled out in a rough circle with the focal point in the middle being on those they had lost. There was the photo of Stiles’ mother that Malia had so carelessly treated next to an equalled treasured photo of Laura. Above them was a photo that Peter had given them of the original Hale pack outside of the unburnt Hale house, Talia standing proudly in the middle, Peter smirking on the left with his arm wrapped around a Native woman, Taigi, who had become his wife a few years after the picture was taken (who was responsible for Derek’s fascination with Native American culture.) Derek and Laura, both ten and twelve respectively, were crouched on the ground in front of the adults with a four year old Cora between them who they were tickling mercilessly. It was one of Stiles’ favourite photos and with his support Derek had been able to hang it a year ago, instead of hiding it away in shame and loss.

Below those photos were two side by side of Erica and Boyd; the first slightly out of focus with Isaac’s head squeezed in with them and all of them laughing, sprawled out on the leaves and dirt of the woods. The second was of just Boyd and Erica, taken just moments later, still lying side by side and looking deeply into each other’s eyes with slight smiles on their faces. It was a quiet, intimate moment and sometimes Stiles felt like he was intruding when he looked at it, but Isaac had found them on his phone, printed them out and had given them to Derek with a strained smile, who had taken them home and sat there staring at them until Stiles had got back. Derek had cried over them, long and hard and ugly, but the next day he’d hung them up and had talked proudly of his two lost betas and what they had achieved ever since.

Below Erica and Boyd’s photos was a single, lovely photo of Allison. Lydia had given it to Stiles with the simple story of how the two of them had gone out shopping and Lydia had had her camera for some reason and so had insisted on documenting the entire trip. She’d caught Allison unaware at one point as Allison had be laughing over something, just starting to turn away, and that was the photo that now graced the wall. Lydia said that while it was important to remember how amazing and badass Allison had been, it was just as important to remember her as the teenage girl who liked shopping and hanging out with friends as well.

Surrounding their remembered ones were dozens of photos of the rest of the pack, from a photo of Scott and Stiles only a few weeks after they’d first met and already best friends, to a picture of John holding a shrieking Melissa in his arms, just about to throw her into Lydia’s pool, that Stiles had managed to capture at a pack BBQ only a few weeks ago. There was Peter, lounging on the grass reading, Liam beaming in his Lacrosse gear with Mason sneakily giving him bunny ears, Deaton and Scott bent over a litter of new puppies, Stiles and Lydia concentrating on the mass of books spread out over the table before them, Doctor Khatri beaming at the huge stack of rare books she’d received from everyone for her birthday, Jackson and Danny smirking with drinks raised at the camera in a night club, Parrish with a faint blush on his cheeks as he waited with a potted orchid (Lydia’s favourite) outside of her front door, Kira grinning cheesely at the camera, Scott and Isaac fast asleep almost on top of each other at a pack meeting, and so many more.

Mason, who adored photography and was planning to study it at college, had been the one to confirm what most of them had already figured out by that point: that you could take photos of werewolves just fine if you didn’t use a flash and had enough natural light. Scott, who was probably the only one who _hadn’t_ figured it out, had been an excited, hyper mess and had spent several days running around with a camera and leaping out on unsuspecting pack members to take their photo. After all it resulted in was some terribly blurred pictures, the odd one of the ground, or of half of someone’s exacerbated face, Stiles, to the relief of the rest of the pack, confiscated the camera from Scott and made Mason the ‘official’ pack photographer.

As a group they’d given Scott a photo album of them all that Christmas (everyone actually got the photos, but Scott’s they made ‘pretty’,) and seeing him tear up in happiness over them made it all of the sneaking around worth it.

Stiles and Derek were quiet for a while after they’d finished, just staring and taking in the most precious people in their lives both living and dead, then together they turned away and moved onto the large set of stacked boxes.

They talked about various things while they unboxed items, like how Chris Argent was doing in France.

Derek had exchanged email addresses with him during the whole Nogitsune debacle, and they’d stayed in touch after Chris had gone. Apparently the massive French-branch of the Argent’s had welcomed him with open arms, didn’t force him to hunt, nor discourage him from talking to their children about werewolves and hunting them not being black and white. The children apparently hung on his every word, as he was gruff, and badass when he needed to be, but kind, and carrying a sadness that they couldn’t help but want to ease. They were doing him a lot of good and he’d actually been able to talk about visiting Beacon Hills and Allison’s grave again sometime in recent months.

They moved on to talk about Derek starting work next week with the local fire service, the book Stiles had been working on for his creative writing course that his tutor was trying to persuade him to take to the publishers (a crime thriller with an angsty, brooding detective with impressive eyebrows, and the motor-mouthed, small-time crook who helped him out.) What they needed to pick up, bright and early, from the local farmer’s market tomorrow morning, ideas for upcoming pack members birthdays, and the occasional disagreement over where something should go before coming to a compromise.

By the time they called it a day nearing midnight, the vast majority of the boxes had been taken care of and the place was starting to look lived in.

Stiles looked around and felt almost breathless in his excitement.

“Stiles?” Derek called as he finished wedging the last of the flat-packed cardboard boxes by the front door so they’d remember to take them down for recycling the next morning.

“I just can’t believe that this is ours. It’s our home, Derek.”

Warm arms wrapped around him from behind as Derek brought his head to rest on Stiles’ shoulder, looking around the apartment as well with bright eyes.

“It sure is. I’m glad we found this place.”

“I’m glad you talked me around to the idea of buying, not just renting. We wouldn’t have seen it otherwise.”

Derek nuzzled into Stiles’ neck, and Stiles tilted his head to give him more access, sighing contentedly at the soft tickle of Derek’s beard and his lips.

“Well I’m glad you asked me to come with you and to find somewhere where we could live together.”

Stiles tightened his grip on Derek’s arms.

“Me too,” he whispered, and Derek let out a faint growl of satisfaction. “I loved that you lived with me and my dad, but that’s his house, not ours, and I didn’t feel like we could put our mark on it like I wanted to. Here we can. No one will doubt that this is our home that we built together.”

Stiles was spun around and pulled into a heated kiss.

“Our home,” Derek whispered contentedly against his lips after they’d calmed down.

“Ours,” Stiles promised and grinned, Derek grinned in return and then wrinkled his nose.

“Do you mind if I jump in the shower quickly? I’m covered in dust.”

Stiles pulled back and with a final peck on the lips started making his way over to the kitchen area.

“Sure. I’ll finish putting the last of the kitchen stuff away and then I’ll grab one after you.”

“Alright,” Derek agreed and went. A couple of minutes later Stiles could just make out the shower starting and then he turned his focus to putting the last of the cutlery away. Did they really need fish knives?

He finished up, content that they’d at least have everything they needed for breakfast, and headed to the bedroom, finding the time before Derek appeared in the doorway wrapped in nothing but a towel to start on the boxes of clothes for the closet. At least they’d have something clean to change into tomorrow now, without having to dig through everything else first.

“Showers free,” Derek announced and as much as Stiles wanted to stay and drool over the water droplets that were glistening along Derek’s skin he knew that if he stared too long then he’d try to touch, and Derek was right, he was covered in dust and dust combined with water would make for a gross predicament.

“Warm the bed up for me,” Stiles teased as he slipped past, giving Derek’s towel-covered, pert ass a light slap.

“Don’t push it,” Derek teasingly called after him as he cackled his way to the shower.

Stiles was intending to only have a quick wash as he was fairly tired, but the shower was excellent and had all these different settings on the shower head that he just _had_ to try out (his favourite ended up being a narrow, intense stream that made him feel as though he was getting a massage at the same time as washing himself) so he ended up staying in there for longer than he’d intended.

After he’d managed to pull himself away from the lure of the hot water he wiped the mirror free of steam and stared at his naked body.

He’d come on in leaps and bounds in the past two and (almost) a half years since he’d been hospitalised. Thanks to Deaton’s creams there had been no lasting damage to his fingers, he’d filled back out to a healthy weight, but, and in many ways it was a good thing, he’d found that after near-starvation for so long that his stomach could no longer handle heavy or greasy food. His dad still teased him incessantly over it because it meant that Stiles had to eat the same diet as him, Stiles however actually liked most of what he’d fed his dad even before everything had happened, so it wasn’t much of a hardship to permanently move onto a healthier, lighter diet. Sure, there were times when he missed being able to chow down on a burger and fries, but he found that he could always steal a couple of bites from someone else if he really craved it without upsetting his stomach and then could continue with whatever he was eating. The healthy diet also meant that he didn’t have to rely on caffeine as heavily as he had done, and that he always felt fresher and more alert even on the very early mornings (not that that meant he’d turned into a morning person, far from it, he’d just wake up feeling more like he’d actually rested the night before, instead of the formally-typical not-feeling-as-though-he’d-slept-a-wink.)

So he had more energy, his body was at a healthy weight, the defence training Derek and Kira taught him on top of his usual workout meant that he’d gained some very nice muscle definition, while remaining very sleek (‘a swimmer’s build’ Isaac had said to him once when, ironically enough, they were swimming,) and he had a few tattoo’s: several to help him channel specific types of magical energy in a quicker and more focused manner, like the one for healing on the inside of his left wrist, or the one for protection on his left side, about halfway up his ribcage, or the one for attack that was on the outside of his right ankle. But then there was also Derek’s triskelion that he wore proudly on his right hip. When Derek had first seen it he’d kept Stiles in bed for the whole weekend (Stiles was forever thankful that he’d waited to get that tattoo for when his dad was out of town,) and he would still take great pleasure on focusing on it during sex, managing to leave Stiles a panting, pleading mess every time, much to his satisfaction.

There were the scars though, and some days Stiles couldn’t bring himself to look at them. He looked at them now though, expression natural but feeling a fierce pride inside for them showing the world what he’d survived. The worst by far were the claw marks Malia had left on his back. The hospital had done so well in stitching up the others that even though Malia had left some deeper wounds on him the last time she’d attacked him, the scars were much thinner. There were still an alarming amount criss-crossing his skin, and while most had faded, they could be overlooked for the most part until they caught the light. Even with that small comfort they had still significantly changed the appearance of Stiles’ body and he’d had to learn to live with them. Some days when it was particularly cold several of them would ache quite fiercely, and it was something else he’d adapted to along the way (although Derek gave the best massages on those days.)

While the majority of them were from Malia, there were others that had joined them along the way: a long, thin line down the back of his right arm and across his elbow where a rouge-omega had almost caught him. A scar from a puncture wound on his side where a hunter had shot him while he was trying to free his pack after they’d captured them, and a faint line of scars down his thigh where he’d slid across the tarmac after an ogre had knocked him and Scott clean off Scott’s bike. Other little nicks from day-to-day things leaving their marks on him over the years.

Derek worried over them sometimes, and other times seemed almost fiercely proud of them as, according to him, it showed other wolves that his human mate was strong and could protect himself.

Mate.

Stiles turned the word over and over in his head as he reached for a towel.

What with everything that had happened to the both of them, they’d taken their time on the physical side of their relationship, and they hadn’t actually had sex until almost the end of Stiles’ senior year, well after he’d turned eighteen.

Both of them had seen their relationship as too precious to rush that side of it and with every step they’d taken both had always made one hundred percent sure that the other was comfortable with it first.

Due to their openness with each other they had learned each other’s likes and dislikes and knew how to spot when one of them was getting overwhelmed and when to pull back. So while Stiles was always proud to say (to literally anyone who would listen) that he had a _very_ sexually fulfilling relationship with Derek, they hadn’t touched much on the ‘mate’ side of things even though they both knew that was what they were to each other if it had to be defined.

It was only seven months ago that he and Derek had finally taken the plunge and had started to refer to each other as such, much to the relief of everyone else in the pack. Derek had known that the word was tied to many unhappy memories for Stiles, and Stiles had known that the idea of openly having a mate terrified Derek, making him convinced that something terrible would happen that would make him lose Stiles the moment he started to call him that.

It had got to the point though where they’d had to sit down and talk about it, both of them finally agreeing to the unspoken acknowledgement between them that they already viewed each other as their mate so they would try and see what it was like gradually sliding into accepting it outside of the unspoken way they thought of each other.

They started slowly, just referring to each other as mate in private, but they’d both found out pretty quickly that they loved calling each other that, whether affectionately, or in passion. Soon they found they had naturally slid into calling each other the term in front of the others, and then they starting introducing each other as their mate to any peaceful supernatural outsiders.

They still hadn’t taken the final step, in which they’d give each other the claiming bite and be, for all intents and purposes, married without the chance for divorce for the rest of their lives. It was such a monumental thing that even though they believed they were it for each other, and their relationship only every continued to grow in strength, they wanted to give due consideration and talked regularly about it. They both agreed that whatever they ultimately decided they wanted to wait until Stiles was done with college before they’d considered it again.

Still though, Stiles thought, as he padded back to the bedroom; being able to call Derek his mate was nothing like what he’d experienced with Malia. With her there had been nothing but denial, misery and fear on his part, but with Derek he got a little thrill every time he heard the word on Derek’s lips or said it himself, and relished what that told the world what they meant to each other. It was a promise each and every time they said it and Stiles couldn’t believe he would ever tire of it.

“Derek-” he began as he opened the door to the bedroom and then stopped.

The light had been switched off and the curtains pulled closed, but the natural coloured fairy lights that hadn’t been up when he’d headed off for his shower were now switched on and hanging beautifully above the head of the bed, filling the room with a soft light. The still-full cardboard boxes had been put in the closet, the empty ones removed, the bed had been made and there, sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his towel, was Derek, who was holding a small box between both of his hands.

“Derek?” Stiles breathed and Derek stood, a vision in the soft light, and walked over to him, pulling him the rest of the way into the room.

“I know we said we’d wait, to maybe do this with the mating bite,” Derek began, clasping one of Stiles’ hands in his own while the other remained wrapped around the box. “But I just knew it was the right time when we found this place. This is the start of a new chapter in our lives together, and I couldn’t think of a better way to show it, so Stiles.”

Stiles had to keep himself from bursting into hysterical laughter as Derek slowly went down onto one knee, looking up at him with an utterly content expression.

“Will you marry me?” Derek finished.

Oh hell, there was no way Stiles could stop the giggles now.

“You do realise that it’ll be a long engagement? Because I won’t want to actually get married until I can get the mating bite from you at the same time, which we agreed not to do until after I’m finished with college, so that means waiting two more years on top of this one.”

Derek smiled up at him.

“I realise, and it gives Lydia more than enough time to plan it all.”

Stiles was giggling and sobbing all at once and he must look such a mess but Derek was looking at him as though he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Then of course, you idiot. What took you so long?”

Derek restrained himself just long enough to open the box, revealing two beautifully simple titanium rings. He pulled out the smaller one first and slid it onto Stiles’ shaking finger, then slid the larger one onto his own, which was also shaking.

Then whatever was holding Derek back snapped and he was up, sweeping Stiles into his arms and pushing him back against the door to kiss him within an inch of his life. Stiles locked his ankles around Derek’s waist and kissed back with equal ferocity.

“My mate, my husband, my love, _mine_ ,” Derek growled against his lips before ducking to suck his way down Stiles’ neck, causing Stiles to gasp and moan and buck his hips.

“Yours,” Stiles panted. “And, _ngh_ , you’re mine.”

Derek had nipped Stiles’ shoulder at his proclamation and then the world swung wildly. The next thing Stiles knew he was sinking into the soft sheets of the bed with Derek hovering over him, eyes burning blue as he took in every inch of Stiles on display, which was everything and Stiles didn’t bother to wonder when exactly they’d lost the towels.

“I’ve always been yours. Will always be yours. So beautiful, my mate,” Derek rumbled before covering every inch of Stiles’ body with his own, grinding the two of them together and causing them both to moan as their erections slid against each other.

“Ah! God, Derek! Will you-will you do it tonight?” Stiles managed to gasp out as Derek worked his way down to his nipples.

Derek froze and looked slowly up at Stiles, the hunger in his expression making Stiles moan at the sight of it and jerk his hips.

“Are you sure?”

Stiles writhed in frustrated horniness.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. Knot me, please for the love of everything, _knot me_.”

It was something they’d talked about in depth before but the moment had never been right to try it. Well it couldn’t be more perfect now.

Derek’s fangs dropped and his face rippled as he struggled for a moment to keep control over himself as he panted against Stiles’ chest. The moment passed and Derek regained control.

“God, I love you so much,” he moaned before dropping to his task again of getting Stiles to fall apart under him.

The last thing Stiles could do before his voice gave way to only gasps, moans, curses and declarations of love, was to shakily get out a very handy little spell he’d discovered and he keened when he felt a sudden slickness inside him. Derek let out a rumbling growl of satisfaction and one of his hands slid down over Stiles’ abs, around his straining and dripping cock, and down between his legs to where Stiles’ hole was twitching and slick, waiting for him.

The spell was a handy little thing, saved time, and the cost was that they needed to buy new bottles of lube a little bit more frequently than they would otherwise. But by far the best thing about it was that it turned Derek on like nothing else; the appearance of his mate becoming ‘wet’ for him driving his wolf into a frenzy of lust. Just like now.

“Gonna need to go up to four fingers, baby,” Derek growled out in a barely human voice against the tattoo on Stiles’ hip. “Not gonna hurt you with my knot. Need to stretch you further.”

“Yes, yes, do it,” Stiles panted, opening and lifting his legs further out of the way, exposing everything to Derek’s ravenous eyes.

“So perfect,” Derek groaned as his first finger sank into Stiles’ pucker, causing Stiles to all but mewl in pleasure (in any other situation he would have died of embarrassment making such a noise,) delighting in finally having something fill the emptiness he always felt in his ass whenever he and Derek started getting hot and heavy.

Stiles clutched at Derek, pulling his mate’s free hand up to draw his fingers into his mouth, sucking in time to match Derek’s thrust, causing Derek to snarl and speed up, knowing Stiles could take it.

One finger quickly became two, then three, and finally Derek was tucking in his pinkie beside all the others and pushing slowly in, lubricant being forced out of Stiles’ ass around them.

“You’re so stretched for me. You’re built for my knot,” Derek moaned, staring down with a glazed look in his eyes as Stiles gasped and twitched through every movement of Derek’s fingers. It didn’t hurt, Derek would immediately back off if he sensed the slightest bit of pain from Stiles and vice versa; rather it was almost too good and Stiles had had to clutch the pillow with both hands on either side of his head to stop himself from touching his leaking cock, knowing he would come instantly if he did. He couldn’t stop himself from begging though.

“Please, baby, please. Need you knot, need it now. Give it to me, please, I’m ready, I’m ready.”

“Okay, baby, okay.”

Derek carefully pulled his fingers free with a wet, sucking sound, and Stiles could feel himself wide open and twitching. Derek very much appreciated the sight since his eyes remained fixed on it, his wet hand lubing up his large, almost purple cock, before he gave a choked little moan and dipped down, his tongue plunging into Stiles’ gaping hole, causing Stiles to arch and wail out in pleasure at the unexpected stimuli.

Derek’s tongue twisted around inside of him, pulling out to lick around the sensitive rim before plunging back in several times, and just as Stiles thought he was going to come it was suddenly gone. Then something much larger and hotter was pressing against Stiles’ hole.

“You ready, baby?” Derek asked hoarsely and Stiles marvelled momentarily at his constraint.

“Yes,” Stiles all but sobbed out and then the tip of Derek’s cock was pushing in, forcing his rim to stretch in the most intense way.

Derek babbled as he pushed in, choking out how perfect Stiles was, how he wished he could keep him stuffed full all the time and then jumping to how much he loved him; when his balls pressed against Stiles’ ass though he fell silent, the room suddenly echoing only their gasps.

When Stiles felt adjusted to the girth inside him as he always had to take a few moments and Derek wouldn’t move until he okayed it, he wiggled his hips, nodded. That was all Derek needed to hook his arms under Stiles’ legs, pull almost all of the way out and then to plunge back in with such force it drove the breath from Stiles’ body.

He set up a desperate pace, too consumed with Stiles accepting him so completely for him to be able to hold back and Stiles loved every second of it.

Stiles could feel every inch of Derek’s marvellous cock as it pounded him into the mattress, revelled in the feel of Derek’s balls hitting his ass and the wet sound that was made with every push and pull of Derek’s hips, dragging his cock in and out over the sensitive nerves and nailing Stiles’ prostate with every thrust, sending intense bursts of electric pleasure through Stiles’ body.

They kept pulling each other higher, knowing every little way to drive each other mad, until suddenly Stiles could feel the bottom of Derek’s cock started to swell, gasping every time it caught on his rim.

“God, baby, gonna fill you up. Make you swell like you’re carrying our pups. You’ll look so beautiful locked on my cock.”

“Yeah, Derek, do it now. I need it! Do it now!”

“Here it comes, baby, gonna give you what you need.”

Derek’s knot continued to swell as he pounded in and out of Stiles until, with an almost audible pop, it forced its way past Stiles’ rim, stretching it to its limit, and locked inside, grinding down so consistently and perfectly on Stiles’ prostrate that all Stiles could do was wail.

Stuck together as they now were limited Derek’s movement, but he managed to set up a grinding, rocking motion that was if anything more intense that the pounding as it felt more intimate. Derek released Stiles’ legs and slumped down over his chest, hips still rocking, to give Stiles a messy kiss. Stiles arched into it, rubbing his throbbing cock against Derek’s abs, the happy trail giving Stiles the perfect friction.

They kissed and ground together and Stiles could feel his orgasm growing all the way through him, taking him up and up, making him clench around Derek tighter who in turn ground into Stiles even harder.

“Derek,” he panted against Derek’s mouth. “Baby, I’m gonna-”

“Me too, me too,” Derek groaned back, licking against Stiles’ lips. “Together, come on, baby.”

Derek changed the angle of his hips slightly and then Stiles was done, his orgasm washing over him in a wave that made his vision black out and every nerve in his body light up, causing him to pulsate uncontrollably around Derek’s cock. He was distantly aware that he was howling, and of a more animalistic one joining him, then he could feel a growing warmth and fullness in his ass and lower belly and realised that he was feeling Derek coming inside him.

His orgasm seemed to go on and on, every atom of his body pulsating in sheer pleasure at such a blissful moment; to feel Derek around in, in him, forever loving him. Perfect.

He came down slowly, and gradually became aware of Derek pressing kiss after kiss into his neck.

“Wow,” was all he could croak out and Derek gave a weak chuckle.

“Yeah,” he agreed, voice equally wrecked, and sounding more than a little dazed.

“We are so doing that again,” Stiles declared, feeling all shivery and sleepy and wonderfully sore.

“Very glad to hear that,” Derek tried to say casually, but his breath hitched a little and his hip twitched, making the lingering remains of Stiles’ orgasm flutter the muscles of his ass around Derek’s knot where, Stiles realised, Derek was still coming. He was already starting to feel noticeably full.

“Er, do you know how much longer you stay like this?”

Derek bit softly into the skin of Stiles’ neck, then let out a quite moan as Stiles felt the knot spasm again, the feeling almost too much against Stiles’ oversensitive insides.

“I should stop soon and then the knot stays in place for anything between ten minutes to an hour to make sure it ‘takes’ before it goes down.”

Stiles had known the logistics of it, but it was quite different to experience it.

“And we’re quite sure this can’t make me pregnant?” he had to check although he already knew the answer.

“Quite sure, although try telling that to my dick.”

Almost in response his cock gave one final twitch inside Stiles before falling still.

Then they were free to bathe in the afterglow.

Stiles was filled with a warm sense of peace.

“I love you,” he whispered as he nuzzled against Derek’s temple. Derek lifted his head to give him a slow kiss and the rested his forehead against Stiles’.

“I love you too.”

And that was what it came down to for them.

They had a new home to build a life in for a few years before moving back to Beacon Hills to find one there so they could be with their pack. There would be arguments, and tears, and battles against unknown enemies, and there would be days when their PTSD or depression gets the best of them, but there would also be unwavering support, and joy, and trust, and love, which was everything a healthy, happy relationship was meant to be.

So, Stiles and Derek lay in their new bed, in their new home, looking forward to sharing the next chapter of their lives together; neither having ever felt more loved or content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I can’t believe I finished! I kid you not, I re-wrote this damn epilogue three times. I just couldn’t get satisfied with it after uploading the other chapters. I think it’s because I wanted to tie up all the loose ends I could with this. I’m as happy as I can be with it now and I didn’t want to leave you all hanging any longer since you’ve all been so wonderful, so I hoped you enjoyed the gratuitous and totally unapologetic fluff and smut at the end. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your support! I really felt that I was diving in at the deep end with putting up such a controversial topic (re, so many people loving Malia/Stalia) for my first fic in the Teen Wolf fandom, but you’ve all been amazing! 
> 
> I’m thinking of something a little less dark (although knowing me it still will be,) for my next fic. I’m considering a Sterek version of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, although, y’know, a bit more realistic on emotional responses and much darker. What do you think? 
> 
> Thank you so much again for being so lovely to me. The statistics that I gave in the first chapter are correct at the time of uploading so never be afraid to raise some awareness over such a serious issue that’s unacceptably swept under the rug so much. 
> 
> I wish you guys all the best and let us keep Sterek in our hearts forever <3


End file.
